


mortgage on my body, lien on my soul

by ceeainthereforthat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Community: deancasbigbang, DCBB 2014, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, Horror, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Stalking, Switch Castiel, Switch Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2432489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeainthereforthat/pseuds/ceeainthereforthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/></p><p>
  <em>About the author: J. Lee Harrison grew up in Port Orchard, WA. He lives in New Mexico and enjoys traveling throughout the US. His novel <span class="u">Haunted</span> won a Bram Stoker award for Best First Novel. You can learn more at www.jleeharrison.com.</em>
</p><p>Cas laughs every time he reads his bio. If it were honest, it would say <em>“Castiel Jones is the author of seventeen novels, all written in states he's visited, published under five different pen names. He lives nowhere in particular - after years on the run from his own real-life horror story, he's forgotten how to stay in one place."</em>Although it could be worse, he supposes. He could always be one of the characters in one of his stories.</p><p>Some nights, he worries that maybe he is. </p><p>When Dean Winchester recognizes him as one of Dean's favorite horror authors, he should be packing up to leave Minnesota. But the handsome, mysterious bad boy who loves books, lives on the road, and tells lies for a living feels real and solid, in contrast to the nightmare that follows his life no matter how far he runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ozzy Osbourne, Blizzard of Ozz. Track 6: Mr. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Defiler_wyrm, geneticperfection92, ajmessier, sonicspocketwrench, and inthebackoftheimpala for reading and re-reading and proofreading various and many drafts. 
> 
> PS: You were right, so I changed it.

mortgage on my body, lien on my soul

1.

Castiel stood in the early morning lineup at Starbucks, took slow, even breaths, and tried to forget about the knife. He got a café americano, loaded it with sugar and enough cream to make it pale. It tasted the same, no matter where he was. He’d never stand in Pike Place again, but he could sit with his MacBook and work in a cafe in Minneapolis and pretend he was okay. Starbucks was familiar, all its features repeated with tiny variants across the country. Castiel took note of the barista with an eyebrow piercing and inventoried everyone’s electronic talismans on the tiny tables--laptops, tablets, smartphones, Walkman--wait.

A Walkman? 

Castiel stared at the chunk of black and gray plastic. Shit, it _was_. It had been jerry-rigged with a line of LEDs and a little meter, like the owner wanted something to show decibel levels. He could hear it. Sounded like Ozzy Osbourne. All the lights were going crazy, including the three red ones at the end.

The man with the Walkman took Castiel’s breath away. He had short, sandy hair, freckles, for God’s sake, and the most beautiful mouth Castiel had ever seen on a man who lived and breathed in front of him. He sat with his shoulders square, legs open, elbow out. He scowled at Castiel over the top of a copy of _Full Dark, No Stars_ like he was going to stand up and ask Castiel what the hell he was staring at.

Oh. 

Castiel was staring.

“Sorry,” Castiel said. 

The guy who’d been looking right at him blinked in surprise and flipped the earphones off. 

“What?” He looked down at his paper cup and his book, then back up. “Sorry, I wasn’t--my mind was wandering. I tend to look like I’m staring at people but I’m just...thinking. I wasn’t...shut up, Winchester.” He rubbed at his eyes, his smile a touch embarrassed.

 _Fuck, he’s cute._ “Well, I was staring.” Castiel gestured at the flashing lights. “At your Walkman.” 

“What? Oh. Yeah, it gets a lot of comments.” He had striking eyes. They were hazel, with gold near the pupil and green on the rim--central heterochromia, Castiel's magpie mind helpfully provided, and the lines around the corners of those green-hazel eyes deepened when he smiled. “I haven’t got everything in my music collection on digital.”

Castiel shuffled a little closer when he heard an irritated “excuse me” from behind him. “Was that _Blizzard of Ozz_?”

“Yeah.” He looked over Castiel’s shoulder and hooked a chair out with one booted foot. “You’re in the road, there. Have a seat.” 

Castiel sat down. “Thanks. I forget the morning crowd is in a hurry sometimes.”

“So you’re not up early, you’re still up,” the man observed.

Waking up from a nightmare was ‘up early,’ but it wasn’t polite cafe conversation. “Got up too early, couldn’t sleep, decided to pour coffee on it and get some work done,” Castiel said.

“Freelancer?”

Close enough. “How’d you guess?”

“You’ve got the look.” The man’s gaze slid from Castiel’s blue-streaked hair, to his triple pierced ear, to the flash of silver in Castiel’s mouth. The man’s look lingered for a second before his lips spread in another warm smile. “My name’s Dean Winchester. I’m up early too.”

He pressed Stop on the Walkman. The tinny sound collapsed all at once, but the lights on the meter continued to jump until he turned the power off. 

There was something Castiel ought to be saying instead of staring, but he couldn't remember. Dean had tied his tongue and Castiel knew damned well that a guy didn’t look at another man’s mouth like that unless--

“What’s your name?” Dean asked.

Fuck. “Castiel,” Castiel said. 

“No last name,” Dean said. “That’s mysterious.”

“It’s Jones,” Castiel said. 

“Castiel Jones,” Dean said. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like J. Lee Harrison?”

Castiel’s mouth fell open. _How--_

Dean’s look darted off to the right before he summoned up a pained smile. “If you wore glasses and your hair wasn’t three different shades of blue and you wore sweater vests, you’d look just like--never mind.” 

Castiel blinked. “No one’s ever told me that. I don’t know what to say.”

“Ah. Well, forget it,” Dean said. “He’s a writer, does horror novels--” he lifted the Stephen King novella collection in his hand and shrugged.

“I’ve never been recognized,” Castiel said. 

It should have been frightening to be recognized. He expected to feel anxiety crushing his chest. Instead, he just drank in the brightening of Dean’s face.

“You’re J. Lee Harrison?” Dean beamed with pleasure. “I’ve read all your books.”

“You’ve read all J. Lee Harrison’s books,” Castiel said. “I’m a hack. I write under four other names besides that.”

“Who?” Dean asked.

“I also make literary forays into epic fantasy and romantic suspense novels,” Castiel said, and they shared another grin. “So you read horror.”

“Well, sometimes.” Dean traced the logo on his paper cup. “My brother thinks I’m out of my mind.” 

“He spook easily?” 

Dean laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. “I’m imagining the face he’d make if he heard you say that.”

Castiel nodded into his Americano. “So do you go to the University here? Graduate student?” Probably not, but a bad guess made people move to correct it.

“Naw, I’m just passing through,” Dean said. “It’s kind of amazing to meet you. If I knew I was going to meet one of my favorite writers I would have cleaned up a bit.”

“Oh, you’re fine,” Castiel said. “Are you on vacation, then?”

“Extended road trip.”

Castiel knew a hedge when he heard one. He hedged when people asked him what he did for a living, before and after the books took off, or if they wanted to know where he was from. “I am too, in a way.”

Dean leaned in a little. “Yeah, you don’t live here?” 

“I tend to live where I’m setting a story. I was just in Denver writing a romance,” Castiel answered. 

“What kind of story are you setting here?” 

“In the Starbucks? You tell me.”

Instead of laughing it off, Dean looked at each person before he spoke. “That lady with the platinum blonde hair, she just discovered that all the partners in her law firm are involved in a conspiracy. But she’s trying to get the proof she needs to blow the whistle, and someone tries to kill her, but she’s rescued by an enigmatic, handsome government operative, and they go on the run.”

Castiel glanced at the woman, who was indeed reading a brief with an appalled expression. “You’re good at this,” Castiel said. “Let me get my pen and then say that again.”

Dean laughed. Castiel liked his laugh. He liked Dean, who treated his job like a job--an interesting job, but Dean didn’t put him on some celebrity level. Cas didn’t know what to say to the people he met who acted like that.

“Okay, have I got this? Associate lawyer, discovers the firm she’s working for has a terrible secret, and she works with a handsome government employee to uncover the truth?”

“Or else all the partners are possessed by demons,” Dean said.

“I like that even better,” Castiel wrote it down. “Handsome stranger has to change. I could make him a priest, tons of UST because of the whole celibacy thing.”

“That’s evil. I love it,” Dean said.

Castiel looked up from his page. “I’ll name him after you.”

Dean shook his head and swallowed some more coffee. “Naw. Call the lawyer Deanna and give her good taste in music.”

“Deanna. Listens to classic rock,” Castiel muttered.

Dean watched him write, bemused. “You’re seriously going to write that.”

“Well, I’ll seriously consider writing it.” Castiel pressed the cap of his favorite pen into the dimple in his chin. “It’s a good idea. I haven’t had a decent supernatural horror idea since _Primal Scream._ ”

“I liked _Midnight,_ ” Dean said. 

“I’m glad you did. People tend to be turned off by Gabriel,” Castiel said.

“I liked how you stripped everything away from Gabriel until he had to face and accept what he’d done before he could make it out of the wraith’s nightmare world. It reminded me of--well, another story.” Dean looked down at the cup in his hands. 

Castiel wondered which story he would have named if he hadn’t stopped himself. “Well, I’m glad. But, confession: I wrote that one before _Primal Scream_.”

“Well, let me see if I can come up with another story idea,” Dean said.

“I’m ready.” Castiel set his cup down and held his pen at the ready. “Lay it on me.”

“A good looking artist meets a handsome stranger in a cafe because the guy’s listening to a Walkman, and they find someplace to eat?”

Wow. Whoa. Castiel realized what he’d been doing. Flirting was a script he knew, and he’d been--not flirting, exactly. He’d been trying to know Dean, learn about him. Dean should have been a rough talking bad boy, by his biker boots and vaguely army surplus looking coat, too cool to smile the way Dean did, or talk about books with such animation. He made Castiel curious.

No. He should go. He shouldn’t --

Dean’s smile dimmed into uncertainty, and Castiel needed to put it back. 

He nodded. The corners of his mouth stretched and curved, a slow-blooming smile that he couldn’t stop as Dean’s own grin perked back up.

“Upscale diner or shoddy diner?” Castiel asked.

“Shoddy.” Dean dropped his Walkman into a backpack. “Definitely shoddy. Did you drive here?”

“This is your car,” Castiel said.

“Yep.” Dean ran an affectionate hand on the trunk of a shiny 1967 Chevrolet Impala parked in the rock star position outside the Starbucks. Castiel watched the light caress of Dean’s fingers where others would have laid a heavy, possessive palm--and turned his focus back on the car.

“You drive across the country in this.” Castiel stared at the sleek black shape. The car was impossibly long, with wide rear tires and shiny chrome trim. It fit Dean, who watched him take in the details.

“Yep.” Dean grinned at him over the roof before he got inside, leaning over to pop the passenger side lock. 

Castiel got inside, and stowed his bag between his feet. “If you get bored with that, you could just light money on fire.”

Dean laughed and caressed the dashboard. “Don’t listen to him, Baby. He doesn’t understand us. Baby, this is Castiel. Castiel, Baby. She used to belong to my dad,” Dean said. “You pick a diner for breakfast?”

Dean’s hand glided from the dashboard to the ignition, and Castiel wondered if he touched people like that. His hand was square with scars on the knuckles, the evidence of fist fights. Those scars were at odds with the reverent way Dean treated his car.

“Cas?”

Castiel looked up. 

Dean winked at him, and repeated, “Did you pick a diner for breakfast?”

“Yes.” Castiel’s stomach fluttered a bit at the smile that came with that wink. “It’s between shoddy and upscale.” Castiel felt for the crank that would roll down the window. The interior was tan but the bench seat was black leather, shiny but not worn. The inside smelled fresh, green and herby. 

Dean noticed him sniffing the air. “My brother hates car freshener smelling stuff. I don’t know where he gets the stuff he sprays in here.”

“It smells good.” Castiel inhaled the scent of basil leaf and something that wasn’t quite vanilla.

Dean started the engine. It was loud, smooth and deep. “Where to?” 

“Place called The Big Rooster,” Castiel replied. “Straight that way about a mile.”

“Got it,” Dean said. AC/DC tapped out an eight-count before the lick for “Back in Black” punched out of the car’s speakers. Dean handled the manual steering one-handed, and dug a phone out of the pocket of his duck canvas jacket.

“Call Sam’s Other Cell,” he told it, and waited with the phone to his ear. “Sammy! I’m out. You knew that, since I’m not there. I’m going for breakfast at some place called The Big Rooster, so go to your juice bar or whatever. Oh and if you don’t hear from me by three in the afternoon, I got murdered by Castiel Jones. Say hi, Cas.”

Castiel laughed and said, “Hello Sam.”

Dean changed lanes to the right and slowed down. “Sam call me if you need anything, but do me a favor. Don’t need anything.”

He hung up and asked, “You got anyone you need to call?” 

Dean had just asked him to make a safety call. “No,” he said. “It’s all right.” 

The bright painted rooster on the roof of the corner diner came into view. “Anywhere you can find to park, this is the place,” Castiel said.

Dean muttered something indistinct and a Toyota Camry parked near the front door pulled away. Dean parked in the spot with practiced ease. 

AC/DC fell silent along with the rumble of the Impala. Castiel opened the door and got out, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. Dean circled around the back of the car and ran his hand over the trunk in a complicated, circling caress.

The Big Rooster had a black and white chessboard floor, hanging plants, red vinyl seats, and roosters everywhere. Figurines, art prints, and napkin holders all bore roosters: crowing, playing golf, and other unlikely things. The menu was solid basics with a couple of daring choices, and Dean ordered a short stack of buttermilk pancakes, bacon and sausage, with eggs over easy. He took his coffee black and nodded in approval at his first sip.

“This is great, thank you.” 

Castiel eliminated _rude to wait staff_ from his red flag list.

“Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon, Castiel?” Juliette filled his coffee cup three quarters full. She snagged a second cream jug from another table and set it down. 

“Yes, Juliette, thank you.” Castiel handed his unopened menu over.

“You’re a regular, huh.” Dean had another sip of hot black coffee and made a satisfied noise. He looked up as Nina Simone’s unaccompanied voice spilled out of the speakers and he nodded. “Yeah, I like this place.”

“I do too. I’ve been here a few weeks, but it’s open from six to midnight, and it’s not far from my place.” Castiel stirred sugar into his coffee. “You’re staying in a hotel?”

“Yeah, on the strip here,” Dean said. “Checked in yesterday.”

Castiel didn’t ask where from. Dean would tell him, or he wouldn’t. “So you pick up jobs, travel from place to place?”

“Sometimes,” Dean said.

“Get enough to pay for gas?”

“Heh.” Dean tapped the handle of his coffee cup. “We hustle pool.”

Castiel poured half the little cream jug’s contents into his cup. “Tell me about that. Is it a scam?”

Dean grinned and hunched his shoulders. He still wore his jacket, and he pushed the sleeves up. “Well yeah, you can play it deceptive, but there’s tournaments. I enter those when we find them. Sam and me, we’re a pretty good team for the con game, and if we didn’t hustle pool we’d have to rob banks to pay for all Baby’s gas.”

“And you’re on a road trip,” Castiel said. 

Dean’s face brightened. He sat up, his fingers tracing over the lip of his coffee cup. “We’ve been all over. Not so much the South. Utah’s kind of boring, but we’ve been everywhere.”

“I want to write a book set in every state,” Castiel confessed.

“Well you’ve got at least four,” Dean said. “More, since I don’t know your romantic writing identity, and I’m guessing your fantasy stuff doesn’t take place here.”

“I’ve got eleven done,” Castiel said. “Well, seventeen. But those ones aren’t out yet.”

“And Minnesota was next?”

“Well, I came to skulk around incognito at a fantasy convention,” Castiel said. 

“Was it fun?”

“Yeah, I liked it.” Castiel wondered if Dean would have liked it. “Now I’m rewriting a book, but I don’t know what I’m going to write next.”

“And you didn’t have anywhere else to fly off to.”

“Train,” Castiel said. “You’ve got your baby, I’ve got Amtrak.”

“What, you don’t fly?” Dean asked.

“I hate flying,” Castiel said. 

“Dude, me too.” Dean’s smile was a small sun.

Castiel had enough amusing stories to keep a conversation going, and Dean did too. He described a nomadic life Castiel suspected wasn’t the whole story. They talked a bit about horror novels, and Dean revealed a deep knowledge of the American Gothic in his comments about _Dreaming the Moon Down_. 

“So you read a lot,” Castiel said.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Kept us quiet in the car, always got something to do while you’re waiting, and TV back then, you know?”

“Not like now,” Castiel agreed. “You watch _Game of Thrones?_ ”

“Of course I do, I love it,” Dean nodded at Juliette, who came by to refill their coffee. “That’s how a book adaptation should be. I can’t imagine trying to cram _The Song of Ice and Fire_ into a movie.”

“ _The Sopranos_ changed everything.”

“Yeah? I put it a bit back. _Twin Peaks_ and the _X-Files_ ,” Dean polished off his last pancake. “I loved _Twin Peaks_. That surreal feeling in a small lumber town, how it was part pulp mystery, part creepy horror, the gradual buildup, how everyone in the series had their own story...sorry, I kinda geek out about stuff I like.”

He hunched his shoulders and the lines by his eyes creased up as he went quiet.

“You don’t have to apologize to me for liking stories.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Dean said, and set his cup down. “I’m having a good time with you.”

“Me, too.” He was. Castiel wished this wasn’t just a hookup.

He mentally shook himself. He was daydreaming about something more with a drifter who lived off gambling. Castiel looked at the silver bracelet he wore next to his watch and remembered, _the common factor in all your failed relationships is you._ This was just a hookup. So long as Dean didn’t ask him to play pool, poker, or to invest in an exciting financial opportunity, it wasn’t any of his business.

Dean paid for his half of the bill in cash. He tipped well, and Castiel crossed out _“presumptuousness disguised as romantic behavior”_ on his red flag list. Dean showed his fastidious affection for the Impala when he fished a rag out of his pocket and wiped a smudge off the trunk of his car.

He started the engine and looked at Castiel. “Should I drop you off somewhere?” 

“I think I’d like you to take me home,” Castiel said. 

Dean drove around the corner and down the block with Castiel’s hand on his knee. 


	2. Nina Simone, I Put a Spell on You. Track 7: Feeling Good

2.

Castiel’s leased apartment had an airy, open living room with a loft over the kitchen and bathroom, furnished with self assembled furniture and matching accessories. None of it was his.

“It’s a three month sublet,” Castiel explained. “The owner’s working in Texas or something. I live out of a suitcase.”

“Longest I ever stay anywhere’s usually about a month.” Dean stepped out of his boots at the door, and then stopped, troubled. 

“Can I take your coat?” Castiel asked.

“Uh.” Dean’s hands hesitated on the lapels. 

So that’s why he didn’t take his jacket off at the diner. “You don’t have a permit for it.”

Dean blinked.

“Your handgun,” Castiel said. 

“Ah,” Dean said. “You’re...calm about this.”

“Minnesota’s a concealed carry state,” Castiel said with a shrug.

“I’m shady as hell right now.” Dean took his jacket off. “I’m gonna lay it down.”

He set a shiny nickel plated pistol on the occasional table. Castiel picked it up. The magazine fell into his waiting hand, and he cleared the round out of the chamber.

“This is a fancy hand-cannon, Dean Winchester. Colt 1911, .45 caliber, mother of pearl grip.”

“Ah,” Dean said. “You know your guns.”

“Writer,” Castiel said. “May I put this away?”

“You have a lockbox?”

“Figured I’d use the closet,” Castiel said, and took the firearm with him. “Do you want anything to drink? I have water, juice, more coffee, tea…”

“Water’s good,” Dean said. “You’re...okay?”

“I’m okay,” Castiel said. “Curious, but I’ll live.”

Dean didn’t explain why he went armed to get a coffee at 6 am, but after the first kiss, Castiel almost forgot about it. Dean stepped easily into Castiel’s space, slipped one big hand into Castiel’s hair, and Cas raised his chin before he even thought to flinch. Dean swept gentle lips over Castiel’s mouth and it made Castiel’s scalp fuzz over as his fingers clenched the wide curve of Dean’s shoulder. 

He’d been a fool for a good kisser before, and here he was again, falling under that spell. Dean enchanted him with a soft sigh that parted Castiel’s lips. They shuffled a step back, and Castiel's shoulders met the wall. He leaned against it as Dean kissed down Castiel’s jaw and touched full, soft lips over Castiel’s rapid pulse, his touch so light it made Cas ache for more.

Oh, he was bespelled, gone past anything but wanting Dean to kiss him again and banish the last tatters of coherent, watchful thought. Cas could kiss Dean all day, and the day after that, with his grip tight on Dean’s shoulders and their bodies pressed together, Dean’s thigh wedged up between his legs. Cas rode that thigh to Dean’s pleased murmur, slid their hips together and pressed close. 

“You belong in a book, Dean Winchester.” Castiel took a deep breath as Dean kissed his throat, and tried to chuckle. “Trouble is, nobody’d believe it.”

Dean laughed and leaned back. “Hell, half the time I don’t believe it. Will you show me where the bed is?”

“Absolutely,” Castiel said, and led Dean up the narrow stairs to the loft.

Castiel had expected Dean to be a barely contained force. Instead he was a sensualist with all the time in the world, all lips and hands and soft sighs. He stopped with the magical kisses long enough to strip off his open button down shirt, smiling at Castiel as he undressed. 

_He’s beautiful,_ Castiel thought, but a flash of black on Dean’s chest distracted him. He lifted a hand to touch the mark, and Dean went absolutely still.

Castiel’s stomach lurched. That had been a mistake. Dean sat straddled across Castiel’s hips, pinning him down, and oh fuck, oh fuck, he’d fucked up--

Dean raised his hand and Castiel flinched, and the look on Dean’s face--shock, and then understanding--made Castiel writhe with shame.

Dean ignored it and picked up Castiel’s hand to trace over the tattoo again. “It’s not satanic.”

Castiel tried to lick his lips, and Dean swept a gentle caress over Castiel’s arm. 

“I guess it’s kinda--shit, I am so shady,” Dean muttered. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“I--I know what it is. It’s a protection symbol.” Castiel ran his fingertips over the flames. “The pentagram is the body, surrounded by protective fire...is it a ward?”

Dean glanced away, uncomfortable. “Something like that.”

“I’ve done a lot of research,” Castiel explained. “For stories. I’ve met a lot of believers. I don’t judge.”

“Yeah, your books and everything,” Dean said. “But you don’t believe? Or--well, has anything weird ever happened to you?”

It was Castiel’s turn to look away.

“I can go,” Dean said. He got off Castiel’s hips and reached for his shirt. “I didn’t mean for everything to go to Awkward Town.”

“I don’t know if I want you to leave,” Castiel heard himself say. That wasn’t right. He did. He was supposed to. Dean Winchester was a gun-toting, pool hustling, small time con man with occult symbols on his body and Castiel should be asking him to leave. But Dean wasn’t just that. Castiel knew there was more, just as much as he knew he wouldn’t learn it.

“I’ll give you my number,” Dean said. “You can call me if you want, throw it away if you want. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t--this is a little too much real me. I’ve got a weird life.” He put his shirt back on and backed up a step to tuck it in.

“Okay,” Castiel said.

“If you want to call me I will pick up the phone. Later today or whenever, doesn’t matter.”

Castiel crossed out _moves too fast_ and _ignores consent_ , then wondered if he was being too generous. “All right, Dean. I will call you.”

“Okay.”

Dean wrote down the address of the motel where he was staying as well as two different cell phone numbers. He put the magazine in his jacket pocket and stowed the empty gun in his holster, and left Castiel’s apartment with one last smile.

Castiel wondered what the hell his life was. He stared at the closed door until he heard the Impala’s big engine rumble to life and fade down the street. He walked out onto his balcony while he put Dean’s contact information into his phone, both numbers.

_Have you ever had anything weird happen to you?_

Castiel pushed the thought away. He pushed the nightmare away. He turned his back on the kitchen and pushed it all away with deep breaths. He watched the street and its people: Dog walkers, kids on bicycles, everyone headed somewhere. He listened to the rattle of skateboard wheels on the sidewalk and thought of the constant sound of a moving train, the sway that rocked him to sleep in a compartment’s narrow bed.

_I’ve got a weird life._

“So do I,” Castiel said. 

The breeze shifted, and Castiel could smell Dean’s cologne on him. It smelled like lemongrass and something spicy-earthy-sweet. He knew it from somewhere. It made him think of warm humidity and crowded streets. It took him back to New Orleans.

Castiel watched the chestnut trees, leaves ruffled by the breeze and told himself again: he shouldn’t have anything to do with Dean Winchester. He knew it. He pulled out his phone and looked at the entry he’d made for Dean’s numbers. 

He tried texting the first one: _Before I sold it, I hand-wrote the first draft of Haunted while I worked at a roadside fruit stand. I used to be a blackjack dealer in Vegas. I’ve been a night watchman seven different times._

He wasn’t sure he’d get any writing done, but he set up on the balcony and tried to make some notes.

The latest room Sam and Dean shared was a lot like the one they’d shared in Denver. This one was dark brown and red, with lots of diamond shapes on the wallpaper and matching bedspreads. 

Sam sat at the square, laminated table with his laptop open. He must have gone out, because he wore his Taurus PT92 in a shoulder holster over his t-shirt.

Dean closed the door behind him with a soft click. “Sam, you ever feel like we’re just staying in the same room over and over, and only the color scheme and wallpaper changes?”

Sam sat back and watched Dean walk in, eyebrows raised. “You’re already back,” Sam said. “Did you strike out?”

Dean rubbed his face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Dude, we’re hunters,” Sam scoffed. “How unbelievable could it be?”

“Okay, try this on.” Dean opened up the refrigerated cooler and took out a soda. “I made out with J. Lee Harrison.”

Sam stared at him and laughed. “I’ve seen his author photo. Bookish and nerdy isn’t your type.”

“False advertising,” Dean said. “He’s got piercings and blue streaks in his hair and he works out. I met him at Starbucks this morning.”

“But you recognized him anyway,” Sam said. “I didn’t know you were crushing on the horror writer in glasses.”

“Shut up.”

“Come on, what happened.”

“Everything got awkward,” Dean drank from the bottle. 

“And so you left,” Sam said. “Well. Sorry about your afternoon delight.”

Dean wrinkled his nose and curled his lip at Sam. “Funny. One sec.” He fished in his pockets and pulled out his main phone, and unlocked the screen. “He sent me a text.”

Sam’s eyebrows went up. “You gave him your number?”

“I said it was awkward, not a disaster.” Dean read the text and smiled. He slid his finger across the screen and composed a rather long reply.

“Dude. While you’re waiting for the next act of your RomCom, tell me why you tore out of here at oh-fuck-thirty.”

Dean set the phone down. “I just woke up early. Figured I’d wake you up if I hung around so I opened up Starbucks. Which I think is haunted, by the way.”

That made Sam pause. “A haunted Starbucks.”

Dean’s knee bounced as he glanced at the silent phone. “The music at Starbucks is bullshit, but the EMF reader’s still a Walkman. I was listening to it and the sensors went off.”

“Could be power lines.”

“Which is what I thought, but I looked around, and none in sight.”

“Dean, we’re not here to hunt ghosts,” Sam said.

“Come on, Sammy, a haunting. The good old days!” The phone buzzed. Dean picked it up, smiled at it, and typed out another message.

“Are you planning another hookup?”

“Maybe.”

“Dean, I know you’re a fan,” Sam started.

Dean scowled. “Come on, stop. He’s not -- he’s interesting. He’s a bit weird. But I’m not _fangirling_.”

“But you’re gonna see him again.”

“He wants to go out for dinner,” Dean said. “I’ll leave you the car so you’re not stuck here all night.”

“Oh yeah, I’m gonna party down on a case,” Sam said. “You remember? The bodies we left Oregon to check out?”

“I remember we didn’t stop in Portland so I could go to Powell’s Books,” Dean said. “You cheated me, I hope you know that.”

“We’ll make it back there,” Sam said. “Right now we’ve got to figure out if this latest death is connected to the other ones.”

Dean still stared at his phone. “How about now? Agents McCafferty and Agnew can make a visit to the coroner, then you can stick your pointy nose in a stack of research so you won’t be lonely when I’m gone.”

Sam nodded and grabbed his suit bag on his way into the bathroom.

Castiel waited a few minutes for an answering text. 

**Sometimes we take on weird jobs. We worked in a carnival once. It was a traveling road show, and I managed to escape with my love of Those Little Donuts intact.**

He shivered at the cold crawling over his skin. Castiel had no business flirting with a guy like Dean. That was what his head told him. The rest though, the rest wanted to be wrapped around Dean Winchester like a vine, and he didn’t want to be alone in his bed. He craved warm skin under clean sheets, and Dean kissed like he wouldn't mind being the big spoon.

Castiel picked up the phone and replied. _I know where we can get mini donuts. Fresh out of the oil with cinnamon sugar. We could have a bag after dinner?_

Dean carried a .45 and his knuckles were scarred. Dean was a man of violence. Castiel tried to remember the reasons why he wore Andrew’s bracelet.

But he’d already asked Dean out. 

**Dinner sounds great,** Dean answered. **Do we go for a long walk with our donuts? There’s no beach.**

Dinner, then a walk. Castiel pushed the excitement down as gently as he could. _I’ve walked a long walk or two, but I was thinking we could watch Battlestar Galactica on the couch._

**The new one? I missed it.**

**__**You like Science Fiction TV? You need to see BSG. The pilot’s amazing.

**Seen the guy who plays Apollo. He’s hot.**

**__**Yeah wait until you get a load of Helo.

**I gotta go out with my brother, but I’ll be back. You don’t have a car do you? I told Sam you’d pick me up so I wouldn’t leave him stuck at the motel all night.**

**__**Shit. I don’t have a car.

**I can walk, no worries. You’re not far. See you tonight?**

**__**It’s a date. I’ll see you tonight.

The county coroner’s office was an ugly brown brick building with circular windows. Sam talked to the clerk at the front desk, who saw their suits and badges and pointed toward a door that led outside.

“You have to go around to the back if you want to go to the morgue, sorry about that.”

“It’s no problem,” Dean said with a smile. “Thanks.”

They walked around to a covered concrete pad big enough for an ambulance. A fortyish woman with streaked blonde hair sat in a plastic chair blowing out smoke from an e-cigarette. 

“Seen one too many bad lungs,” she said. “Dr. Howard.”

“Hello,” Sam said. “I’m Agent McCafferty and this is Agent Agnew.” They presented their badges in unison, folded them back into inside pockets. 

“Pleasure.” Dean bent to shake her hand.

“Likewise,” she replied. “What can I do for you fellows?”

Sam bent to shake her hand too, and launched into the explanation. “We're working on a strange one. Deaths with heavy lacerations on the body. They’re in different states--”

“Or else you wouldn’t be here,” the doctor said.

“Right. We just drove out from Colorado.”

“Drove?”

“As far as we can tell, the time between suggests our UNSUB is driving from place to place,” Dean said. “We’ve been trying to follow the trail in case of other evidence.”

“UNSUB? Then I don’t have one of yours,” the doctor said.

“Cause of death was exsanguination,” Sam said, and the doctor tilted her head.

“Victim was in their own home, locked inside?” Dean turned on the smile.

Dr. Howard sat up. “It might be one of yours.” She got to her feet. “Do you want to see the body, or are you happy with the report?”

“We’ve seen photographs, but I get a better picture in person,” Sam said.

“Well, gowns and gloves are this way.” Dr. Howard led them to a room outside the morgue. She smiled at Dean, who rubbed Vick’s Vapo Rub on his upper lip. “Do you find that it helps?”

“Somewhat,” Dean admitted. He took off his jacket and slid the gown over his shirt, tie, and shoulder holster. He followed Sam inside the examination room.

The body made Dean want to close his eyes and shake his head. She was waxy-pale, fine boned, and way too young to be in a cadaver drawer.

“No sign of struggle or restraint?” Sam’s tone said he already knew the answer.

“None,” Dr. Howard said. “The injuries match a kitchen knife with only her fingerprints. Every wound by angle and depth indicate self-inflicted injury.”

“And she was alone,” Dean said. 

“Just like the others, I’m guessing.”

“Ours were all alone,” Sam confirmed. “Tox screen was clear?” 

“I even went looking for the weird stuff,” Dr. Howard said. “She drank one, maybe two glasses of wine before bed. There was one glass used in the kitchen, a partial bottle of wine in the fridge.”

“So the evidence tells you she was alone.” Dean traced the long line of a knife slice along her throat, his hand hovering inches above the wound. “And these injuries, they’re all--”

“Self-inflicted,” Dr. Howard said. “Near as we can tell, she cut her throat and her femoral artery and kept on going. Some of the cuts didn’t bleed at all.”

“That’s unusual,” Sam commented.

“Until I saw this body?” Dr. Howard gave him a tired smile. “I would have said it was impossible. Femoral alone would have killed her in under a minute.”

Dean flicked his gaze up at Dr. Howard, intent on her pretty, dark brown eyes. “And the knife was nearby?”

“It was still in her hand,” the doctor agreed. “I’ll get you those reports. You want a hardcopy?”

“Please,” Sam said.

Dean was first through the motel room door. “Dibs on the shower. I’ve got to wash this stink off.”

“For your date?”

“For my date.” Dean disappeared into the pink and red tiled bathroom to wash up, and when he walked out Sam was right there with the comment Dean had shut the door on.

“Since when do you go on dates?”

“Come on, Sam, I’ve been on plenty of dates.” Dean dug through his athletic bag and came up with his Swan Song T-shirt and clean jeans.

Sam rolled his eyes. “You usually pick dates up where you find them.”

“Which I did, this morning,” Dean said. “This is just a… do-over.”

Sam gave him a scornful look. “That’s your favorite t-shirt. You shaved. And you smell like that man-perfume you wear when you go to the bar.” He might as well have been counting them on his fingers.

Dean let out a loud, impatient sigh. “Did you have any thoughts about the case, Sam, or were you planning on continuing this chick flick?”

Sam rolled his eyes again. “No reports of sulphur at the crime scene, but again, that doesn’t rule out demon possession,” Sam got up to shut the motel room drapes. “There was a lightning storm the night before Melissa Kramer died, but no such storm before Trevor Davies or Scott Ruskin in Denver.”

“So what else could do this?” Dean asked.

“My money’s still on demon. Body will keep on ticking long after the host is dead with a demon inside.” Sam turned back to his laptop. “How about a psychic, with the ability to control a person’s body against their will?”

Dean mused over this. “Psychics could leave the homes locked with their abilities. A ghost could, too.”

“Too far for a ghost to travel,” Sam said. “What about witchcraft?”

“Oh I _hate_ witches,” Dean said. “But what are you thinking, somebody share a new spell on the Internet?”

“Stop right now,” Sam said. “Don’t even go there. The tulpa was bad enough.”

“Just saying. We’re brainstorming right now.” Dean shrugged. “I’ve gotta go if I don’t want to be late.”

“Dean.”

“What.”

“Don’t break this guy’s heart.” Sam got up and got a beer out of the cooler. “We’re moving on when we solve this, or when there’s another body in another town.”

“It ain’t like that,” Dean said. “He’s interesting. That’s all.”

“If you say so.” Sam went back to his research.


	3. The Stooges, Fun House. Track 1: Down on the Street

3.

Castiel sat on his balcony and pretended to work. 

Well, that wasn’t fair. He was working. He was reading the part of _Fade Into You_ where Vin walked into the bar he’d been led to and saw Chad, half dressed in a sex-parody of cowboy gear gyrating on another man’s lap. Castiel fiddled with the sentences, trying to describe the storm of emotions at finding your childhood love and seeing how far he’d gone from the rosy nostalgia of your past. He worked, but mostly he watched for Dean’s high-shouldered, bow-legged gait. 

He spotted Dean when he was still a couple blocks down, and thought that fifty years ago Dean would have been a smoker, the burning tube planted in the corner of his mouth one more emblem of the masculinity he exuded like armor. Castiel watched the wary way Dean scanned the street -- tree lined, with mid-century bungalows on one side, and three story apartments on the other. His chin went up and his shoulders came down when his survey of the street landed on Castiel. Dean’s whole posture smiled at the sight of him, and the image planted itself in Castiel’s memories.

Dean stopped at the edge of the apartment’s sidewalk and gave Castiel a warm look. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Castiel pitched his keys down and Dean caught them one-handed. He disappeared inside, and Cas got up to meet him. 

Dean took his coat off and hung it up, catching Castiel by the waist for another kiss. He smelled more like vanilla this time, a warm, heavy scent weighted by pepper and leather. Date cologne. Castiel wished that he still smelled like a memory of New Orleans.

“Are we going to walk out right away, or--”

“Are you hungry?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I could eat.”

“Well, then. Let’s go.” Castiel locked the balcony door while Dean put his coat back on.

Manny’s was a few blocks down a tree-lined boulevard next to a playground and park. 

“Nice neighborhood,” Dean said, and a stray Frisbee flew into their path. Dean caught it, and spun it back.

“Good reflexes,” Castiel said.

“Thanks,” Dean said. “I tend to watch what’s around me. Maybe it’s a bit paranoid.”

He was talking about hypervigilance. That fit with some of the pieces Castiel had collected. “If it was me, I would have just ducked.”

“Flight’s a valid response.” Dean shrugged. “The smartest, honestly. I’m the knucklehead who fights.”

“Heh. That happen a lot?” The scarred knuckles told him that yes, it did.

Dean looked down at the sidewalk and chuckled. “Ah, I guess that’s not a very good date topic.”

“I’m not good at having appropriate conversations,” Castiel said. “Too much curiosity.”

“There’s no cure for curiosity,” Dean said. 

Castiel nodded, smiling. “There isn’t.” 

Dean walked shoulder to shoulder with him, matching his stride and rhythm. He watched Castiel as much as he scanned the street around him, expression sharpening at everyone who stepped into their path. “So, what kind of pizza?”

“Thin crust.”

“I like that,” Dean said. “Is it a foodie kind of a place?”

“It is.” Castiel waved toward a red door.

Manny’s was upstairs. The host led them to a patio table with tall stools and a view to the street below. Dean took his seat and shrugged out of his jacket. Castiel watched him scan every patron on the patio before he turned his attention back to Castiel.

“This is nice. Sign me up for a beer and I’ll have what you’re having.” 

Dean ignored the menu. He spun a silver band that rested on the ring finger of his right hand, looking down at the street.

Castiel unwound the tight band around his chest with a slow breath and tried to figure out what Dean would like. Should he get an all-meat pizza? Maybe they should have gone for burgers. Dean liked burgers. Castiel licked his lips, but his mouth was dry.

Dean laid his hand on Castiel’s. “Hey.”

Castiel looked up.

“This isn’t a test,” Dean said, and Castiel’s heart beat like the wings of a frightened bird. _He knows._

“I know.”

“Seriously. I’m not picky, I’ll try anything. I wanted to make it easy.” Dean looked at him, his eyes dark in the dimming light. “How do I make it easy?”

Castiel looked back down at the menu. “My favorite pizza here is capicollo, red onion, basil, tomato, and feta.”

“That sounds great,” Dean said. “Now what’s good for beer?”

Castiel had been on dates like this before, dates where a casual observer wouldn’t be able to tell that Castiel and the guy he was with were on a date without studying the minute details. Dean ate half their pizza with appreciation. He stopped drinking at one beer, but he complimented it, and Castiel’s taste in choosing it. He paid his half of the bill, but let Castiel buy him a bag of donuts. Dean walked next to him without touching, and Castiel wondered if Dean even knew he was doing it.

“Now we walk,” Dean said. “Work off a bit of that pizza, huh? Do we walk through the park?”

“I usually walk through the neighborhood, look at the houses.” Castiel said.

“Let’s do that,” Dean said. “Lead the way.”

They wandered along the streets to the scent of new-blooming roses and freshly mowed lawns. A tall, narrow Victorian caught Dean’s eye. It was painted a deep plum with green and gold accents, standing proud before a long concrete walk bordered by prize roses.

“I don’t really remember living in a house like this,” Dean said. “House, yard, neighbors, all that.”

“How’d you grow up?” Castiel asked.

Dean told Castiel about his life on the road, about knowing the highways across the country the way kids knew their neighborhoods and malls, the sameness of long-stay motor hotels, always moving to wind up in the same place. “Dad did a bit of this and a bit of that,” Dean explained. “I think we keep doing it because we don’t know how else to live, sometimes.”

“And it’s hard to change,” Castiel said.

Dean looked back at the tall, proud house. “Most times I look at a house like that one and think that it would be like slowly dying to be tied to it. Not like Baby. She’s a part of us, if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Castiel said.

“Thought you might understand.” Dean cocked his head, and they kept walking. “You know a thing or two about how a change in latitude can change your attitude.”

“The good thing about writing, these days, is I can do it anywhere,” Castiel said. 

Dean put his hand out for Castiel’s empty donut bag, and he folded it into a neat square before he put it in his pocket. 

Castiel licked cinnamon sugar off his fingers. “But sometimes I get stuck.” 

“What do you do then?”

“I book a long train trip. Days long. Something about the scenery whipping by, it makes a space that--”

“Feels safe,” Dean said.

“Yes.”

“That’s a bit like me too,” Dean said. “I guess I’m a wanderer, and houses are too heavy to carry.”

“Maybe someday,” Castiel said. “But not now.”

“Maybe you’ll get an RV,” Dean teased.

“With the rest of the grayhairs,” Castiel laughed. “I only stay in winter when a book demands it.”

They walked in silence to Castiel’s apartment building. Dean stopped, just before the single concrete step to the glass doors and said, “I had a nice time, Cas.” He leaned back on his heels, ready to turn and go if Castiel said good night.

Castiel held the door open for him. “Then let’s not stop.” 

They didn’t bother with the pretense of watching Battlestar Galactica. Castiel led Dean straight up to the sleeping loft and kissed him a little rougher than the kisses they shared that morning, and Dean answered by dragging Castiel’s head back and sucking on a spot on Castiel’s throat that made him groan and grab handfuls of Dean’s broad shoulders. Dean kissed and bit until Cas’s head spun and he thought he might fall if Dean let him go.

But Dean picked him up. Cas wound his legs around Dean’s waist and hung on tight as Dean set him down on the bed. Castiel tugged Dean’s t-shirt up and over his head. 

Dean laughed and leaned back, helping Castiel take it off, then caught Castiel’s hand and lifted it to touch his tattoo. “You were right, this morning. It’s a protection against evil spirits.”

That bit of trust made Castiel smile up at Dean. “Mine’s my birth year.”

Dean’s face lit with curiosity. “You have a tattoo?”

Castiel started unbuttoning his shirt. “Just the one.” 

“I’ve only got one.” Dean tried to undo Castiel’s shirt cuffs. “I don’t know what I’d get for another one.”

Castiel half-pushed Dean off and wiggled out of his shirt.

“Where’d you hide it?” Dean asked.

Castiel shoved at Dean again and undid his fly. “I’m not done showing you yet.” He half-pushed his jeans down and turned over on his stomach.

The tiger that stalked out of the bamboo background filled the left half of Castiel’s back. The big cat’s black stripes and uninked negative space marked its body through the vivid greenery it emerged from. Castiel knew what it looked like, from photographs taken in the mirror, the colours still vibrant, the lines clean and sharp. Dean was silent for a half-minute before asking, “Can I touch it?”

Dean’s asking made Castiel’s heart go warm. “Go ahead.”

“It’s beautiful,” Dean said. His fingers were light. “Your favorite cat?”

“It is,” Castiel agreed. “I wanted that tattoo for years before I had it done.”

“Multiple sessions, hours under the needles...does it go with your hair and the piercing?”

Castiel hummed agreement. “They all came after I--after I published my first book. I spent my advance in a heartbeat.” Some on the tattoo, but mostly on running away, farther than he could be chased.

“That tiger’s coming out of hiding,” Dean said. “And bamboo looks a bit like prison bars, if you squint.”

Castiel stayed quiet, and Dean lay down beside him. “I’m glad you got it, Cas.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that, so he leaned in and kissed Dean. Dean let Castiel roll him onto his back and straddle his hips. Dean sighed under him, hips rolling up to press insistently against Castiel’s groin. He raised his head to kiss his way up to Castiel’s ear and asked, “Top or bottom?”

Castiel sat up in surprise, and Dean laughed. “Weird question?” 

An unexpected question. “I just assumed,” Castiel said, and laughed at himself. “If you’ll stay for breakfast, we could switch.”

“I’d like that,” Dean said. “And breakfast.”

“Good,” Castiel said, and bent down to kiss Dean’s neck.

“But which do you want first?” Dean asked.

Castiel knew what he should say, but he couldn’t help pushing it. “Top.”

Dean smiled wider. “Good.”

Dean changed under Castiel’s hands after they decided. He let Castiel lead the way, groaned when Cas pinned his hands to the bed, and kissed back with hip-grinding eagerness. Castiel lifted his head to look at Dean’s face, flushed pink over his cheeks, his gorgeous mouth rosy with kisses. Dean reached up to touch Castiel’s face, fingers curling along the curve of his cheek and jaw. It caught Cas off guard and he must have startled a little bit, because Dean smiled when he took his hand away.

“Sorry,” Castiel said.

“Don’t be,” Dean said, and reached back up to pull Castiel down for another of those toe-curling kisses. 

They got out of their jeans and Dean lay naked on his back, legs open, knees bent. Castiel knelt between his legs and kissed every scar on his chest while Dean stroked Castiel’s hair. He sought sensitive places, ones that made Dean groan and squirm and whisper _“yes, there”_ and _“God, Cas, fuck yes.”_ It made Castiel smile into the downy fuzz of Dean’s belly, lean but not sixpack hard, and kiss lower. 

Dean groaned and let his knees fall open when Castiel kiss-licked the crease that joined Dean’s thigh and hip. “Cas,” Dean sighed, shivering under Castiel’s tongue. “That’s so good.” 

Castiel turned his head to kiss along the hard shaft that grazed his cheek, and Dean sucked in a breath.

“Think we better get those condoms out,” Dean whispered. “I have some--”

“I do too.” Castiel crawled up to reach into the bedside table, then sat up and gave Dean a packet. “I like the thin ones.”

“Fancy,” Dean teased, and grabbed the lube bottle. Castiel watched Dean pour extra lube in the tip and roll the condom down over his cock. He looked up and smiled at Cas’s watching.

“It’s been a while, for me,” he said.

“We can switch,” Castiel offered.

“No way,” Dean laughed. “Uh uh. You’ll get yours in the morning, it’s my turn right now.”

Castiel leaned back over Dean’s body to get a glove.

Dean was so unashamed of his responses. He writhed on Castiel’s fingers, hips circling to thrust gently into Castiel’s mouth. “That’s so good, Cas. Fuck, you’re amazing, oh God your mouth—”

Castiel loved it. He wished they didn’t need that condom. He wished he could taste Dean’s cock, that he could drag the stud in his tongue along the flared head and show Dean what that piercing was for, that the heat of Dean’s tight, squeezing hole was wrapped around his bare fingers. But Dean asked for these, and that was something that made Dean different, better.

Castiel pulled back and slid three fingers inside and Dean whispered “Fuck yes” to the stretch.

“So good,” Castiel said, and reached, fingers curled up. Dean grunted and raised his hips, nodding, his lips parted and eyes shut.

“Good right there?” Castiel asked, and Dean planted his feet down on the mattress and fucked himself on Castiel’s fingers. Holy fuck. Dean was beautiful, abandoned, shamelessly grinding to get Castiel’s fingertips exactly where he wanted them.

“Cas, feels so good, need you to fuck me,” Dean said. 

Yes. Yes, fuck. Castiel scooted up to kneel between Dean’s raised legs. Dean pulled his knees apart and down, breathing hard. He licked his lips and Cas bent down to kiss him again, felt Dean whisper “Yes” against Castiel’s mouth as Cas lined up and pushed inside. 

He felt so hot. It took willpower to go slow, to be patient, to nudge up a little deeper in time to Dean’s long exhalations. Castiel wanted to be all the way, so deep inside Dean and squeezed tight. He almost didn’t believe Dean was under him, legs spread to let him in.

Dean winced and laughed. “Should have asked for four.”

Castiel tried to pull back but Dean grabbed Castiel’s hips.

“I’m not complaining,” he smiled at Cas, and he was so gorgeous, hot and tight and he wanted Cas, pulling him in deeper with his legs. “It’s awesome.”

Castiel drew back and slid in deeper. His cock jerked as he watched Dean’s eyes widen and then snap shut with a groan. Fuck, he was beautiful. 

“You are fucking perfect,” Castiel said, awed.

“Cas,” Dean ground his head back and Castiel bent down to kiss the long line of his throat, his groan vibrating under Castiel’s lips. Dean raised his head to catch another kiss, sucking on Castiel’s lip, opening for Castiel’s tongue. 

He was beautiful, half-wild and open and Cas buried himself inside to Dean’s whispered sighs and praise.

The neighbors hated Castiel’s guts right now and he didn’t give a fuck. He peeled his glove off and braced his weight on Dean’s knees and watched Dean’s face while he pumped his hips hard.

“So good, Cas,” Dean reached between them and his knuckles dragged against Castiel’s belly. He should be taking this slower, gently like how Dean kissed him. He slowed, but Dean shook his head. “Hard,” he said. “Like you want me.”

He did. Oh fuck, he did. Who wouldn’t?

The bed shook. The headboard thumped against the wall and Dean held onto Castiel’s forearm with one hand while he stroked his own cock with the other. Castiel didn’t know what to watch. Dean’s arm flexed with the speed of his hand. He looked like he was in agony and he clamped down on Castiel’s cock. 

Castiel was spellbound by Dean’s expression, but he spread the man’s knees wider and fucked into him, watching as Dean’s eyes screwed shut and his whole face tensed, nostrils flaring and his jaw clenched.

“Do it, Dean, come. Come right now.”

Dean cried out and Castiel was so fascinated his own orgasm snuck up on him. Heat flooded the sheath and he couldn’t breathe until he fell to Dean’s chest, panting and shuddering. Shocks raced up his back, jolting groans from him.

Dean murmured sweetly in his ear. “That was amazing. Thank you.”

Castiel laughed and kissed Dean’s tattoo. “No, you.”

Castiel’s cock twitched. He reached back to hold the condom’s rim as he withdrew and rolled off Dean, who got up and disappeared into the bathroom.

Water ran, and Castiel got up to use the powder room downstairs. When he got back upstairs Dean was under the covers and waiting for him with a pleased smirk.

Castiel slid into bed and they wound around each other. “You are so good,” Cas said, into Dean’s hair.

“Oh I know,” Dean said. “Ready to sleep?”

“Yeah. See you in the morning?”

“Mm, yes,” Dean said, and kissed Castiel’s bamboo covered shoulder.

Castiel was warm, and Dean felt good beside him. Sleep stroked Castiel’s hair, and he followed it down.


	4. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Let Love in. Track 5: Red Right Hand

4.

Castiel didn’t know what he was doing in the kitchen. He was cold. His throat was tight, barely open enough to breathe. He needed to scream. It was right there, waiting for him to open wide and let it go. His heart pounded, and he held a knife.

_Oh no._

He looked at the blade--clean. But he had scratches on his arms like hesitation marks. Like he’d been trying to cut the skin apart and watch the blood well up in garnet cabochons and spill, beautiful droplets on the tile, no two alike. He would watch each one fall until the blood thickened and slowed and stopped--

 _No, no._ He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to see--just a little? Just a little bit of red. Enough to smear on his lips and taste. Enough to dip a finger in and write a note so everyone would know that he was sorry. 

Sorry for what?

Sorry for what he’d done. For what he did to people, for how he destroyed them. For his selfishness. 

No. No, no…

That scream perched in his throat tried to get out, to squeeze its way past the whimpers and gasps. He was so cold and he wanted to scream, but if he started he didn’t know if he could stop. He should put the knife down. Put it down. Turn out the light. Walk away, it’s just a nightmare.

He watched his fingers twitch. Watched the knife slip from his hand and fall, two tumbles before the blade landed on his foot and clattered to the slate tile. It was red, red and warm and spilling down between his toes, onto the floor. It trickled down to pool around his foot, finally free. It chased down into the grooves between tiles like a cross.

He had to scream.

Just watch the red, watch it flow. It’s life, what hides under the skin, the perfect color all inside where no one can see.

“Hey. Hey, hey. Cas.” The sharp snap of fingers next to his ear.

Dean. That was Dean. He smiled and the scream writhed in his throat, but somehow Dean heard him. Dean laid him down on the floor. It was cold under his back, but Dean raised his foot up and held it in strong hands. Then it started to hurt.

“Can you tell me where you are?” Dean asked.

“The kitchen.”

“Tell me your name,” Dean said.

“James Novak,” he said. “No. That’s not right.”

“What’s the name on your driver’s license?”

“Castiel Jones,” he said. “I’m Castiel Jones and J. Lee Harrison and Matt Everman and Daphne Ann Allen and Roger Tremblay.”

“That’s a lot of names.”

“All the royalty checks go to Castiel Jones.” The world felt sharper. “The floor’s cold.”

“It’s cold in here,” Dean said. 

Castiel smiled at him. “You’re nice.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. “Let’s see if your foot stopped bleeding.”

He took his hand away and no new red seeped out. No more red. No more blood. No. That wasn’t…

“Oh fuck,” Castiel said. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I--I guess I was hungry.”

“It’s all right,” Dean said. “You lost some blood, so you’re probably lightheaded. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Under the kitchen sink,” Castiel said.

“I’m going to move you, okay?” Dean picked him up again, and Castiel held onto his shoulders. “We’ve got to get you warm.”

“I feel woozy.”

“Should I take you to the doctor?” Dean asked. “I’m a decent field medic, but if you’d rather go to the doctor--”

“No hospitals,” Castiel said. “I trust you.”

He did. 

Dean moved him to the couch and put his feet up. He draped a fuzzy throw blanket over Castiel, and tried to stand up.

Castiel grabbed his arm to keep him from going. 

“I shouldn’t,” Castiel said, and wished he could take it back. “Don’t go.”

“It’s okay.” Dean ruffled his hair. “I’m getting that other blanket to put on you. And then I’ll clean your foot up and — you have any of that herbal tea?”

“Cupboard to the right of the stove,” Castiel said.

“I’m coming right back,” Dean said.

Castiel huddled under the blanket and listened to Dean knock about his kitchen. “D’you have hydrogen peroxide?”

“That’s not good for cuts,” Castiel objected.

“For the floor,” Dean said. “Blood is a bitch to get out of tile.”

Castiel wondered how Dean would know the best way to clean up blood. “Laundry closet.”

Dean came back with an armload of stuff. He draped another blanket over Castiel, and the cut on Castiel’s foot stung when he washed it.

“Is it bad?”

“It’s a bit deep,” Dean said. “I doubt you have the stuff for stitches in your kit.”

“You can do stitches?”

“I can do stitches,” Dean agreed. “They hurt like hell, though. Wiggle your toes?”

Castiel hissed, but Dean said, “Good. You’re going to have a scar, but that’s all. Do you still feel unreal?”

“How’d you know I--”

“Seen it before,” Dean said. “It’s okay. Seeing blood can make a person feel strange.”

He’d felt unreal before he dropped the knife. Like he was watching somebody else. “I think I--” he stopped himself. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“No apology needed.” Dean dressed the wound with antibacterial cream. “Do you sleepwalk?”

“I didn’t used to.”

“Sometimes it happens because of stress,” Dean said.

“I--” Castiel fell silent. “I don’t think it’s stress.”

“You don’t have to know why it happened.” Dean used butterfly tape on the cut, and Castiel felt warm and--safe. Dean made him feel safe. Oh, he was in trouble.

“I pick the best ways to fuck up a date,” Castiel said. 

“Hey now, none of that.” Dean taped a gauze square over the whole thing, and re-packed the kit. “I made you some tea, can you drink some?”

Castiel smiled. “Sure, give it here.”

Dean helped him sit up and handed him the warm cup. “I’ll put this stuff away.” He got up and toted everything back to the kitchen while Castiel sipped tea. 

He still felt embarrassed, but it felt far away. The fear crept in and tickled the back of his neck. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in a nightmare, but this time he bled, and he’d--stood there and watched. What if Dean hadn’t been there? Because he was thinking that he would have picked that knife up and cut, just to watch it.

Castiel took a deep shuddering breath and opened his eyes.

“Hey,” Dean said. Castiel realized that Dean had been naked as a jaybird this whole time. “It’s all right. Tell me what you need.”

“I just feel weird.” Castiel drank grassy chamomile tea and the warmth relaxed his ight stomach. He was all right. Dean was here, calm and taking it all in stride. “How did you learn how do this?”

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “My little brother.” 

“You’d do this for him?”

Dean took Castiel’s cup away and helped him get to his feet. “Our mom died when we were little. I was four, and Sam was six months old.”

“That’s awful.”

Dean nodded. “Dad, he… he did what he could, but most of him died that day too. I wound up taking care of my little brother. Dressed him, watched him, made sure he ate, and when he hurt himself, he’d come to me.”

“You’re good at it,” Castiel said. “What’s the worst wound you’ve ever dressed?”

“I had to sew Sam up after a knife fight,” Dean said. Smooth. Practiced. This wasn’t the truth. Castiel watched Dean’s eyes crinkle, saw the smile meant to daze. “He swore a blue streak at me. I just let him.”

“Hustling pool gone wrong?” Castiel asked, and Dean made a face.

“It was a bad night.”

It wasn’t the truth. What was the truth? “Can we go back to bed?”

“Sure can,” Dean said. “Can you walk for a bit?”

Castiel took a few steps. “Hurts, but I’ll live.”

“I’ll look at it in the morning… later in the morning.”

“What time is it?” Castiel asked. 

“It was 3:17 when I woke up. I heard the knife drop.”

3:17 am. 

“Cas,” Dean said. “Hey, come back to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, you’re okay.” Dean rubbed his shoulder. “I know you feel like you have to say sorry but you don’t have anything to feel sorry about.”

Dean let him go up the narrow stair first. Castiel all but dove for the bed. He got under the blankets and Dean followed after. Cas huddled into him, tucked his head under Dean’s chin and closed his eyes, listening to Dean’s steady heartbeat.

Castiel woke up to a warm spot in the bed next to him and Dean coming up the stairs. He lifted his head from the pillow and stared. Dean was still gloriously, beautifully naked, holding a baggie with a toothbrush inside. 

“Hi,” Dean said.

“Hi,” Castiel said.

Dean crossed the small stretch of floor to slither back in the bed and curl around Castiel, spooning against his back. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I don’t think you did.” he flexed his fingers and toes and froze at the pain in his foot. “Last night. What did I do?” 

“You mean besides screwing my brains out?” Dean chuckled. “You went downstairs for a midnight snack half zombied and you dropped a chef knife on your foot. I played doctor.”

That didn’t sound like going mad in the night. That sounded reasonable. Even a bit humorous. 

Castiel would take it. “Mm. Am I going to live, Doctor?”

“I’ll have to examine you to be sure.”

Castiel laughed.

“No, really,” Dean said. “Let me look.” He left the blankets bunched around Castiel and carefully peeled off the gauze.

Gentle fingers held Castiel’s foot, and Cas tried to shake the soft, comforting feeling of Dean taking care of him. He didn’t go soft in the head over a careful touch. He didn’t. “Do I have gangrene?”

“Nope,” Dean said. “Not red, not swollen, not hot to the touch. You have an awesome medic.”

“I’ll have to thank him,” Castiel said.

Dean peeled off the last corner of gauze. “Now you have to let it get some air. Have you got a pair of flip flops?”

“Somewhere,” Castiel said, and he knew. One of his books was going to have Dean in it. Maybe a little altered, but he was going to have to write Dean down. He wanted to keep him. And that went a little past a hookup, didn’t it?

Dean caught some of Castiel’s pensiveness, and he stroked Castiel’s knee. “We don’t have to have sex now, just because we said we would last night.”

“I want to,” Castiel said, “but I want a shower first.”

“Mm. Can I come too?”

Dean had brought a condom packet into the shower with him and he was on his knees, his fist wrapped around the base of Castiel’s cock while he went to town on the rest. He swiveled his head to mimic the little twist Castiel liked to use to jerk off, and he sucked hard enough to make his cheeks hollow. 

Castiel fucked shamelessly into Dean’s mouth, and he damn near choked when Dean took his hand away, letting Cas thrust down his throat. Castiel shuddered to a stop, but Dean put Castiel’s hands on his head and hummed an assent that rippled down Castiel’s cock.

The warm water pulsed against Castiel’s shoulders as he tested what Dean could take, a careful forward nudge that earned him a swat on his hip and a stern look as Dean swallowed him down. 

Castiel watched Dean’s face, those beautiful hazel eyes, and oh fuck Dean’s full, curving lips wrapped around his dick, and let go. Not as rough as Castiel liked to take it, but it was enough to make him come with a shout. He was still wide eyed when Dean pulled off and grinned at him.

“Fuck me,” Cas breathed, and Dean stood up to kiss him. “You’re amazing.”

“You make me want to show off,” he said, and reached for the soap.

Dean used it as a reason to get his hands all over Castiel. He found sore spots, knots of tension, and sensitive places that made him chuckle as Castiel responded.

“Found another one.” 

Castiel shivered at Dean’s fingers tracing light circles against the small of his back, and couldn’t manage much more than to say “Dean.”

“What?”

“I want--”

“I know,” Dean soothed. “Come on.”

Dean walked him out of the shower and they barely got dry before Dean put him facedown on the bed and kissed down his spine. it made Castiel arch and curl, groaning as Dean kissed and let his breath send cool shivers over Castiel’s skin. Dean paid attention to him in a way he didn’t understand, maybe didn’t deserve, and he shifted. He should--

“No,” Dean said. 

“But I should--”

“It’s your turn now,” Dean said. “I’ve got you. You want something, tell me.”

Could he? “I like it--”

Dean pressed a kiss against Castiel’s shoulder. “Tell me.”

He didn’t tell anyone. He never let anyone know what he wanted, what he was afraid to want again. “I like to feel like I’m not in control.”

“But if you want to stop, say stop,” Dean said. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel said, and Dean seized him.

Here was the force of nature he’d expected. Dean rolled him onto his back and pinned his hands down, and Castiel couldn’t help it - he struggled and tried to buck. Dean had him trapped with strength and weight, and he took a kiss that left Castiel gasping. 

“Are you gonna be still?” Dean asked, and Castiel nodded. 

“Good boy,” Dean said, and Castiel bit back a moan. Oh, this. Dean turned Cas over and he got his knees under him, spread wide and ready.

“So good,” Dean praised, and it swirled around in Castiel’s mind, he heard the drawer open and tried to raise his head, but Dean said “be still,” and Castiel settled until Dean pressed one lubed, gloved finger to his hole. Castiel sighed at how easy one finger went in.

“Another.”

“Greedy,” Dean laughed, but he got his wish. Dean held steady while Castiel moved, rocking on Dean’s fingers. “Something you want, Cas?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, and Dean held his hand still, rigid.

“Show me.”

Those words curled around his ears and got him in the pit of his stomach. He bore his weight backwards and rocked on Dean’s fingers, swiveled his hips, and Dean stroked Castiel’s back.

“Such a good boy,” Dean praised, and Castiel whimpered. 

“That’s so hot,” Dean praised. “You look so good like this. You want more, Cas?”

“Please,” Cas said, and Dean pressed him down to the bed, taking his fingers away. Castiel whined in protest.

“Relax,” he soothed, and the broader, rounder pressure of Dean’s cock nudged inside, so slowly Castiel wanted to reach back and pull him in. But Dean barely paused in pushing his way deeper, and Castiel groaned when Dean finally drew back and started a slow stroke that curled Castiel’s toes.

“That's good,” Dean whispered. “You are so good.” He draped over Castiel’s back and kissed the back of Castiel’s neck, hips grinding. Castiel put his head in the pillow and groaned. 

“You’re good.” So good. He didn’t want to stop. Dean reached under Castiel and rolled them to the side, his clever fingers on Castiel’s nipples, dragged his fingernails down through the hair on Castiel’s belly. It left a tingling trail over Castiel’s skin, made him close his eyes and groan, “Harder.”

Dean snapped his hips back and forward, fast and hard, teeth scraping on Castiel’s right shoulder. He held Castiel tight and pulled his hips down to meet his rhythm and oh fuck yes, that was--

“Perfect,” Dean whispered in his ear, his hips heavy and fast. Cas was full, so full. He whimpered and licked his lips and Dean nipped at the back of his neck in sharp stinging bites.

“Up,” Dean said, and he reared up to Castiel’s raised hips and on his knees he could go faster, harder. Cas balanced on one hand so he could stroke his cock, fucking backwards so their hips crashed into each other, hard enough to pound a grunt out of Dean every single time. 

“Fuck, Cas, so good baby come on, come for me--”

“Rough,” Cas gasped, and Dean’s fist was in his hair so fast he pulled Castiel’s head back.

“Yes!” Castiel came with a loud moan and a shudder down his spine, focused on the painful grip Dean had on his hair. Dean held tight until the last shock went through him and then he let go, his rhythm all jangled as he came.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, and he dropped kisses on Castiel’s back as he pulled out. He rolled away, then rolled back and curled around Castiel. “If you like it rough, I can do that next time.”

Next time. When was the last time he’d had a next time? 

It didn’t fucking matter. “Tonight?”

“Mhm,” Dean agreed. “We’ll fail at watching Battlestar Galactica again. Manhandling or bondage or what?”

“Did you fall from Heaven?” Castiel asked, and wiggled around to face Dean. “No, really. Did you?”

“You’re sweet,” Dean said, and smiled at him. He massaged Castiel’s scalp where he’d pulled. “I’d stay all day and distract you from work, but my brother will get bitchy at me if I don’t show up.”

“I’d let you distract me but I should work,” Castiel laughed. “How about we get that breakfast?”


	5. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, Déjà vu. Track 1: Carry On

5.

Dean made it back to the motel room around 10:30. Sam was up, balancing on the back legs of a kitchen chair, reading something on his laptop. 

“Hey. Anything good?” Dean asked, and hung up his jacket.

“This is the latest you’ve done a walk of shame in years, Dean.”

“Yeah well, room’s yours again tonight.”

The front legs of Sam’s chair hit the gold and black linoleum with a thud. “Since when do you see anyone again after spending the night?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Are we going to talk about our feelings now, Sam?”

“I should say yes, just to see what would happen,” Sam smirked.

“Well if you must know,” Dean scowled, “he’s a great kisser and his stroke is top notch. He’s also hung like a--”

Sam clapped his hands over his ears. “Jesus, Dean!”

“You asked.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Sam grumbled. “So it’s just physical, is that what you’re saying?”

Dean didn’t answer.

“You like him,” Sam said. “I know you do. But how are you going to have a connection like that? You can’t tell him the truth about your life.”

“It doesn’t matter, okay? Forget about it,” Dean said. “Did you find anything out about Melissa Kramer?”

“Right, the case,” Sam said. “I remember that.”

“Come on, Sam, did you find anything or not?”

“Found something. You remember you told me yesterday you thought the Starbucks might be haunted? She was a regular there. I called Bobby and got her credit card statements.”

“Well look at that,” Dean said. “I’m not out to lunch on something. You up for a frappawhatever?”

Starbucks wasn’t as chillingly identical a chain as Biggerson’s. Dean stood back and looked at the menu boards, but Sam ordered an iced latte with soy milk and ordered a cafe Americano for Dean, who made a face.

“It’s what you always get, Dean.” Sam scooted around a cafe table barely big enough for a chessboard. “Every time you read the menu from beginning to end. Every time you get an Americano.”

“They’re good.”

“They’re espresso with water in them.”

“Shut up.”

They grabbed the low table with the cushy seats. Sam hauled the Walkman out of his bag. All the lights blinked three times and went silent.

Dean watched the lights and waited, but only the bottom green light flickered feebly.

“Ghost-free zone,” Sam said.

“They weren’t like that yesterday,” Dean said. “It was redline all the way.”

Sam shrugged. “Something was different yesterday.”

“Yeah, like what?” Dean asked.

“Well the people, for one,” Sam said. “There was over a hundred customers in here for the morning rush. Maybe--shit.”

“What?”

“What if the demon we’re tracking was here?” Sam asked. “What if this is where the demon found Melissa, and then picked up someone else?”

Dean scanned the midmorning crowd. “A hundred people at random, Sam, how are we going to track through that?”

“We’ve got dress code clothes, we could pose as employees.”

“What, you think I can learn all this grande half sweet lingo?”

Sam sipped his latte. “After your stint as a PA? Yes.”

“Come on,” Dean waved the idea away. “Isn’t there anything that links the vics together?”

“Age group,” Sam said. “Nobody younger than twenty-eight, nobody older than thirty-six. The victims cross racial lines.” Sam sipped his iced coffee and thought. “They all looked good on their driver’s licenses.”

“So adults. Attractive, isn’t-it-time-you-got-married aged adults. Income?”

Sam looked down, eyes skewed rightwards. Dean could almost see him mentally flipping through the pages he'd read in his memory. “From below poverty up to about 40k a year, so no one wealthy.”

“And no connections.”

“So far,” Sam agreed. “Bobby’s looking for credit card records for me. Maybe they’ll have something there.”

“There’s got to be a connection,” Dean said. “Let’s walk back and have a look.”

Bobby was just as cantankerous as ever, but he’d gotten the records. “Waited for you boys to call,” he said. “Are you headed this way for the summer?”

“When we’re done with this job, yeah.” Dean put his elbows on his knees and watched Sam type on his laptop.

“Good. Ellen’s been asking after you. I think she misses you.”

“I think she’s got odd jobs to do around the roadhouse,” Sam said. 

“That’s why she misses you.”

“This all of it, or are you waiting for some more?” Dean asked, watching the paper feed through the printer. He itched to start reading them now but Sam would fuss.

“That’s all of it,” Bobby said. “You boys be careful. Especially you, Dean.”

“Why me?” Dean asked, but Bobby’d already hung up.

Dean frowned at Sam. “Did you tell Bobby I went out on a date?”

“He wanted to know where you were,” Sam said.

Dean plucked papers out of the printer.

“Don’t get those out of order.”

“Sam, when do I ever--”

“All the time.”

Dean huffed. Sam looked the statements over. “Anything?”

“Hang on.” Dean reached for another stack and dragged his finger down the entries. “This is interesting.”

“What?”

“Travis Davies and Scott Ruskin were both into dudes.”

Sam leaned leftwards to frown at Dean. “How can you tell?”

“Credit cards tell few lies.” Dean highlighted a few lines with pink marker. “They both had charges to Boystown. That’s a gay bar.”

Sam blinked at him. “You know the gay bars in Denver?”

“Sam,” Dean said patiently, “It’s _called_ Boystown.”

Sam consulted the Internet. “Okay, there’s a connection. What about Flynn Avery, in Portsmouth?”

“No Boystown in Portsmouth,” Dean said after a moment. “Do me a favor, search reviews for a place called the Sky Lounge.”

“Got it,” Sam said. “Apparently it’s awesome and tragically ridiculous at the same time. Rumored to be a swinger’s spot… ah. It says things can get pretty wild there, and the crowd is “eclectic.” That code for something?”

“Mixed sexuality crowd,” Dean said. “It’s not all gay but it’s definitely not straight either. My kind of bar.”

Sam grinned. “Martinis are eleven dollars.”

“Fuck that,” Dean scowled.

“So it looks like we might have to case gay bars,” Sam said.

Dean chewed on the end of his pen. “Well that’ll be fun. I’ll be your wingman, Sammy.”

“Shut up.”

Sam printed the credit card information for Philippe Masson, Julie Bissell, and Smith Jordan, who all died in New Orleans (Julie Bissell was a tourist from Indiana.) Dean reviewed each statement in turn and said, “Look up Cafe Lafitte in Exile.”

Sam typed something in. “Bingo. Philippe Masson?”

“All three of them,” Dean said. “Julie Bissell was there the night before she killed herself in her hotel. Philippe had charges there twice a week until he died. Smith Jordan went on … paydays. Fuck. So.”

Sam leaned back, balancing on the chair’s rear legs. “Young. Good looking, single? And of flexible sexuality.”

“What connects a demon to all of them?” Dean asked.

“Demon’s just a guess. What if we’re talking about a siren?”

“Oh fuck me running,” Dean said. “Not another siren. I’m still not over the last one. We almost killed each other.”

Sam shrugged and got up, clearing the table of bottles and cups. “You have to admit, that could fit. But instead of making them kill their loved ones, the siren makes them kill themselves.”

“I hate this idea and I think it’s stupid,” Dean grumbled.

“But it’s possible.”

“It’s possible,” Dean conceded. “Maybe we have to search Melissa’s home. Once more with the monkey suits?”

“Anything good will be in evidence,” Sam said.

“Fuck. You’re right. Let’s not tip our hand to the cops yet. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

He picked up Melissa’s credit card statements and read them again. Sam continued to trawl the web, looking for more deaths. 

“Hey.”

“Find something?”

“No,” Dean said. “I’m hungry.”

“Sky’s blue, water’s wet.”

Dean tapped the pages and then stood up. “Come on, I know a place down the road, let’s get some lunch.”

Castiel was up to his eyes in rewrites on _Fade Into You_ , right knee bouncing to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young playing on The Big Rooster’s sound system. He smiled at Juliette, who brought him a lunch menu and another glass of water. 

“I hope you sell a book,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be fine? I could never do it.”

“It’s difficult,” Castiel agreed. 

The door bells jangled and Juliette looked up from trying to read Castiel’s screen. “Oh, it’s your gentleman friend,” she said, and then murmured, “Oh. Oh dear.”

“Cas?” 

Dean stood by his table with a young giant by his side. He was taller even than Dean, who stood over six feet. “Have you moved since breakfast?”

“I got on a roll,” Castiel said. “Come, sit.”

Dean shouldered his jacket off. “This is my brother, Sam.”

The giant stepped forward. “Hi.”

Juliette quit holding her breath. “Coffee for you boys?”

“Yes please. Sam, this is Juliette, she’s awesome,” Dean said.

“Damn right I am.”

“I’m Sam. Can I have water instead of coffee?”

Juliette nodded. “Hear it stunts your growth.”

Dean smirked. “Sam, this is Castiel.”

“Dean’s told me a lot about you.” Sam slid into the booth.

“Heard about you too, as it happens,” Castiel said. Sam didn’t look like his brother, but his eyes - “You have it too.”

“What?” Sam asked.

“Central heterochromia,” Castiel said. “Where--”

“You have two different eye colors, but instead of having one brown eye and one blue, you have two different eye colours in the same iris,” Sam said.

“Sam’s a brainiac.” Dean sat down beside Castiel and leaned into his space. “Are you writing or rewriting?”

“Rewriting,” Castiel said. “Cowboy romance.”

“I hear romance novels are lucrative,” Sam said.

“They can be,” Castiel paused when Juliette came back with water, coffee, and lunch menus.

Sam looked from Juliette's retreating back to Castiel.

“I have a small historical Western series under contract,” Castiel said. “This book was unplanned.”

“Is it historical too?” Sam dropped a drinking straw into his water.

“Contemporary. Small town boy runs away to Denver to find acceptance, and sad things happen. His childhood crush finds him years later, and they have to adjust to each other to make their relationship work. A simple book. I don’t expect it’ll require any sequels.”

Sam sipped water. “Dean said you go from place to place, writing?”

“Yes.” Castiel mirrored Sam’s water drinking. “A month to rewrite a book, and two months to write a new one. I write fast.”

“You must,” Dean said.

“I work for about four hours every day. I don’t usually take days off,” Castiel said. “I tell my agent that I can slow down any time I want.”

Sam and Dean laughed.

Castiel held up a smile for Sam and realized he was trying to...make a good impression on Sam. Find a rapport. Like he’d been taken to meet Dean’s family. “Dean tells me that you two hustle pool.”

Sam looked at Dean. “You told him?”

“Yeah watch it, he’s good at getting you to talk,” Dean said.

“I wonder how the system operates,” Castiel said. 

“A couple different ways, if you’re talking about the scam,” Sam said. “Dean can hold his booze down, so he can look like a good player who’s had too many. Sometimes I try to talk him out of making the bet.”

“Sam does the streaky player who’s rattled by certain shots,” Dean said, “because he can make a long bank shot but simple angles and controlling spin still fuck him up.”

“Oh shut up,” Sam said. “Most of the time we sign up for one night tournaments.”

“Excuse me, who?” Dean gave Sam a cocky grin over his coffee cup. “Me, that’s who.”

“I play,” Castiel said.

“Are you good?”

“Well, I haven’t played in a while. But yeah,” Castiel said.

“A fiddle of gold against your soul cause I think I’m better than you,” Dean said.

Castiel gave him a look. “Oh, really.”

Sam grinned. “This is gonna be good.”

They ate a hasty lunch and tipped well. Sam surrendered shotgun to Cas, who gave directions to Ferguson’s Family Billiards.

“Anywhere you find to park,” Castiel said, and Dean nodded, eyes on the road. He said something Castiel didn’t catch and slowed down for an Infiniti that pulled out two spaces away from Ferguson’s front door. Castiel signed them in, paid the deposit for a two piece cue, and they gathered around a regulation 8-ball table.

“We could play cut-throat,” Castiel said. “Then Sam could play.”

“After,” Sam leaned against the wall. “I want to watch The Rumble in the Jungle.”

“What are we playing for?” Dean asked.

“Forfeits?”

“A wot, old chap?” Dean asked.

“It’s a--never mind, you know what it is. Fine. Or bragging rights forever. Grudge matches for the next decade.”

“Decade, huh.”

“Or two,” Castiel said lightly.

“Let’s play for your forfeit, then. I’ll have to figure out what I’ll make you do.”

Dean gave him his insolent smile, the one that dared and pushed. Castiel looked him up and down, and said, “Oh I already know what I’ll make you do.” 

Dean’s eyes widened.

Castiel felt a flicker of warm satisfaction as he put a cue ball on the line and shot to the opposite rail, standing away to let the ball roll back. Castiel hadn’t touched a cue in months. Two inches away from the line wasn’t bad.

“You’re in trouble, Dean,” Sam said.

“Well look at you, Vincent Lauria.” Dean grabbed a cue ball from another table and shot. His ball rolled to the line, but tipped over.

“Shit.”

“My break,” Castiel said.

Sam laughed. “Nice going, Fast Eddie.”

“Shut up.”

Castiel had shots, he had strategy, and he played to win. They left each other behind the 8-ball and took shots that should have required a slide rule to calculate, but in the end, Dean won their first game.

“I thought I was done for on your break,” Dean shook Cas’ hand. “You’re good.”

“Again?” Castiel said, and they hung there for a second before Dean looked at Sam and said, “Snooker?”

“Tomorrow. We’ve got to work,” Sam said. “I’ll take the cues back.”

“So I owe you a forfeit,” Castiel said. Dean was full of the satisfaction of a hard contest won, and Castiel’s reminder sparked in his eyes.

“I’ll have to think of something good,” Dean said. “I wonder what you would have had me do.” 

“Good,” Castiel said. “Maybe you’ll ask me to do it anyway.” 

The look in Dean’s eyes made warmth rise in Castiel’s chest again. “I think I might. Sam and me, we’ve got to go do some stuff, but I’ll see you tonight?”

“Anytime after 7:00?”

“Sounds good to me. Battlestar Galactica. For sure this time.”

Castiel laughed. “We’ll call for delivery.”

Sam waved one hand between them, and Castiel stepped back. “You two going to stare into each other’s eyes, or are we getting out of here?”

Dean faked a shove at Sam’s shoulder, but he looked pleased. “Okay, we’re going.”


	6. Little Charlie & the Nightcats, Shadow of the Blues. Track 4: You Got Your Hooks in Me

6.

Sam watched Castiel walk up to the front door of his apartment and said, “You do like him. You should see yourself.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Sam rested his elbow on the door, and the air blew his hair into his eyes. “I’m assuming he’s not a siren because we’re not trying to kill each other.”

“He’s interesting,” Dean said.

“He nearly kicked your ass at pool.”

“But I won.”

Sam snorted. “Barely. But Dean.”

“Sam,” Dean checked both mirrors, then changed into the left lane. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“You like him,” Sam said. “And we’re out of here when the case is done.”

Dean’s shoulders crept up, and he shrugged them back down. “And he’s out of here when the book’s done.”

“But before that. How are you explaining what we do?”

“Pool hustling.”

“When we had to get directions to the closest hall?”

“We’re not having this conversation,” Dean repeated. “Do you want to interview Melissa’s friends?”

Sam rubbed his temple. “Why would the Feds interview for a suicide?”

“Fuck.” Dean seized his chance to turn left into the motel parking lot. “There’s got to be something we can do.”

“There is,” Sam said. “Laundry.”

“Fuck my life,” Dean groaned.

Sam waited until they were inside the hotel and sorting their collection of machine wash warm, tumble dry clothes. “So this guy’s name is actually Castiel Jones?” 

Dean looked out the window at the passing shadow of a guest walking to a Durango. “It might not be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something happened last night. He hurt himself, sight of blood, he got a bit loopy.”

“And that has something to do with--oh. Name check,” Sam said.

“He said it was James Novak, and then said that wasn’t right. I asked him what the name on his driver's license was, and then he said Castiel Jones.”

“Do you want me to check it out?”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Dean kept his head turned away. He looked down at his sorted laundry.

Sam didn’t answer.

Dean arrived a few minutes after seven smelling like dryer sheets. He brought a six pack of beer and a big grin.

“Hi,” Castiel said, and turned the urge to burrow into Dean’s arms into a hello kiss. 

“Hi,” Dean said, and managed to set the beer down on the hall table while kissing. “You kiss like you missed me.”

Castiel laughed. “I worked, Mister Ego.”

“Ouch,” Dean said. “On your cowboy thing.”

“Yes.” 

“Do you know what your new book will be about?”

“I’m still deciding,” Castiel said. “Nothing’s sticking.”

“You worried?”

Castiel kissed Dean again. “No.”

That kiss took them up the narrow stairs and into the bed, where they stripped off each other’s clothes. 

“We’re never going to watch BSG, are we?” Castiel took off Dean’s blue shirt.

“Not this time.” Dean’s hands were at Castiel’s belt. “Mad?”

“No way,” Castiel said, and dragged him down to the bed. 

He craved this -- Dean’s weight covering him, the press of their hips and his kiss, kisses that made his body wake up and demand attention. Dean’s full, gorgeous lips on his skin, heating his cheeks to a flush. He nipped at Dean’s lip and Dean pulled back, letting out a shaky breath.

Castiel lifted his chin and Dean fell on the vulnerable spot on Castiel’s throat, all soft lips and beard stubble. It made Castiel hold on tight while the blood rushed through his body.

“Dean, oh fuck.” Castiel couldn’t stop his churning hips if he wanted to. Dean was learning all Castiel’s buttons, exactly how he liked to be kissed and where, and Castiel knew more than a few of Dean’s hot spots. He ran a light fingertip over the curve of Dean’s ear and smiled at Dean’s groan, buried in the side of Castiel’s throat.

Castiel didn’t learn a lover’s body. He didn’t feel need with a name attached. Dean was getting inside him, making him forget safety and sensibility. Dean could make him sweep his rules aside, and it should have scared him.

“Good?” Dean asked.

“Fuck, yes.” Castiel found Dean’s hand and put it on his chest. Dean found his nipple and rolled it with his fingers, dragging a low groan from him. Castiel tightened his fingers in Dean’s hair and rocked against Dean’s hips. 

“Fuck,” Dean’s grip flexed; he dug down with his hips. “ _Fuck,_ Cas. I can’t get enough of you.”

Castiel froze. 

“No. Stop.”

Dean was off him instantly. “Okay.”

Castiel sat up, dragged his knees up and hugged himself into a ball.

Dean said, “He used to say that to you. I’m sorry.”

“You know,” Castiel said. “How do you know?”

“I know a thing or two about bad memories,” Dean said. “I’ve got a share. Sometimes they get you and you’re never expecting it.”

“But you know,” Castiel said. “I should just get over it.”

“How long has it been since it ended?”

“Does it ever end?” Castiel asked. “I haven’t had a boyfriend since. Or a girlfriend. I meet people, I take them home once, and that’s it. Just hookups.”

“I know that life,” Dean said. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. There was a girl, once. For a month, and then we had to go.”

“I don’t know what it is, I feel like I’ve got a sign on my head…” Castiel reached out a hand, and Dean came close enough to take it. He knelt by Castiel and stroked his knee, soothing.

“You kept meeting guys who were like him?”

“I stay far away from guys who are like him,” Castiel said. “Instead I wind up with people who were--depressed, I guess. Not you. You seem like you’re good with life.” 

But they had too.

“Sure,” Dean said. “Not saying I haven’t had bad times, but it’s been a while.”

“I was always gone in a few months anyway,” Castiel said. 

“Is it different this time?”

“You fishing?” Castiel said. “It’s different this time. I don’t go on dates. First, second, whatever.”

“You pick ‘em up where you find ‘em,” Dean said.

Castiel shrugged. “I get around.”

A soft chuckle made Castiel look up. “Yeah, me too.”

“I met a girl at the convention I came here for.”

“You gonna see her again?”

“I told her I was from out of town,” Castiel said. Melissa had been a pretty girl in a Hogwarts costume who didn’t want complications. “I thought that was going to be it, that I didn’t want sex as much. Until you.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. Castiel looked at him, attentive and watchful.

“Andrew--” There. Castiel said his name. “He’d say that. He’d want to be with me all the time, because he couldn’t get enough of me. He phoned me all the time, because he couldn’t get enough of me. I thought it was love.”

“Until you looked around and realized he’d taken over your whole life,” Dean said.

Castiel stared.

“I know the drill.” Dean shrugged. “Didn’t even know how bad it was until Sam kinda rubbed my nose in it.”

“I like Sam,” Castiel said.

“He’s a big galoot, but he’s got a hell of a job trying to keep me sensible. How did it end with Andrew?”

“I thought it ended when I ran away,” Castiel said. “I sold a book. I got an agent, and I lived pretty lean for a while. But I was free.”

“Then what happened?” He said it like he already knew it was coming.

“He found me,” Castiel said. 

Dean nodded and kept rubbing Castiel’s knees, listening.

“I can’t talk about that night,” Castiel said. He’d never forget it, but his tongue stopped on the words. He couldn’t even write them down.

“You don’t have to,” Dean said.

“I went back home with him,” Castiel said. “I pretended long enough that I managed to get away again. Changed my name, left the state, no contact with anyone but my sister.”

Dean kept that slow petting on Castiel’s knee. It gave Castiel something to concentrate on, the feel of Dean’s calloused hands so gentle on him. “But you couldn’t talk to her,” he said. “Your whole life became a secret.”

“How do you know this?” Castiel asked.

“Been there. Am there,” Dean said. “Enough about my secrets. What happened then?”

Castiel dragged the blanket folded over the foot of the bed over his shoulders. He was cold. “He started making suicide attempts. He told everyone it was because I left him. That he didn’t know how to live without me. One night he cut too deep and succeeded.”

“And then you were free.”

“Am I?” Castiel asked. “I don’t _feel_ free. I have nightmares. I sleepwalk. I--I woke up with the knife in my hand, and I wanted to cut, but at the same time I felt like I was trapped inside me, not really in control.”

Dean’s petting hand stilled. 

Castiel wanted to sink into the floor. “I know it’s crazy.”

“Did you feel that way before?”

“I did things and didn’t remember that I did them. For hours. Like I was asleep, but -- I found notes. As if he wrote them, to me.” Why was he telling Dean this? “I know it’s crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, Cas,” Dean said. “I think you're responding to an insane, stressful situation and it’s making you think you’re crazy.”

Castiel tipped his head back and he tried to smile. “That’s a nice thing to say.” 

“I mean it, Cas. You’re not crazy.”

“If I’m not crazy, then what am I?”

Dean looked away. “I’m not sure you’d believe me. Listen, maybe we should get comfortable.”

Castiel’s stomach sank. “Kinda killed the mood, didn’t I?”

“Hey now, none of that,” Dean said. “Let’s relax a bit.”

Castiel buried himself in Dean’s hugs and little kisses, the comforting warmth of Dean and light blankets. It was like a warm and fuzzy drug, combined with the relief of telling somebody who didn’t run away screaming.

“You cuddle,” Castiel said.

“I like it,” Dean said. “Don’t get to, very much.”

“You smell like… New Orleans,” Castiel said. “Something. It makes me remember.”

Dean chuckled. “Like a curio shop?”

“Yes. I like it,” Castiel said. 

They stayed like that, quiet and warm, until Castiel said, “I feel like I need to leave town.”

“Where to?” Dean said.

“New England,” Castiel said. “I want to go back there. I can book a cottage at off-season rates after Labor Day.”

“You were in New England?”

“New Hampshire, May last year,” Castiel confirmed. “I wrote _The Summer Passage_ there. One of my fantasy novels.”

“Matt Everman,” Dean said. 

Castiel lifted his head to look at Dean. “Have you read my fantasy novels too?”

“I read _The Darkling Sea._ ”

“Wrote it three years ago. Took a while to sell it.”

“I thought it was good,” Dean said. “Are Ashton and Gwyfedd gonna get together?”

“They will be,” Castiel said. “It’s in _The Summer Passage_.”

“We’ll be headed to South Dakota for a bit,” Dean said. “For the summer.”

“Is that home?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Dean said. “We tend to stay around the Midwest.”

“Do you go south for the winter?”

“If we can help it,” Dean said. “Baby does alright in the cold, but why stay if you can go?”

Castiel chuckled, and Dean’s phone buzzed.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “Sam.”

“Go ahead,” Castiel said.

Dean picked his phone up and slid his finger across the screen to reply.

“Did something come up?”

Dean frowned at his phone. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Sam picked up his phone and looked at it, then back at a Facebook page. He studied photographs of a man with vivid blue eyes and short dark hair, compared to a slightly blurry photo of Castiel on his phone. He frowned, and compared it to another. Sam nodded to himself, and swiped over to “messaging” to send a text: _James Novak, WA. Drops off the grid two years ago. Cas was in Denver writing book during T.D’s and S.R.’s deaths. Connection?_

Sam watched the phone, and blew out a gusty breath when it buzzed in response. 

Dean had responded: **He was in NH in May 2012. Check records for DV in WA.**

Sam texted back. _What about NOLA?_

Dean laughed and shook his head. “Sam is drunk texting me about wanting to go to New Orleans.”

“I liked it there,” Castiel said. “Did you know, they advertise rentals in the French Quarter as ‘haunted’ or ‘not haunted?’”

“Which did you pick?” Dean looked at his phone and swiped in a response.

**He was there. He’s telling me about it now. He’s the link.**

**__**Stall him. I’m coming.

Castiel rolled over and draped his arm over Dean’s waist. “Not haunted,” Castiel said. “I wasn’t interested in being disturbed by the unquiet dead.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in the supernatural,” Dean ruffled Castiel’s hair, eyes on his phone.

“I don’t know if I do,” Castiel replied. “But you do, right?”

Dean put the phone down on the night table. “You want to talk about it?”

They could talk about it. They could talk all night, with the lights low enough so all they could see was shape and shadow, and Castiel could tell him--

His throat went dry. 

Dean stroked his fingers down the back of Castiel’s neck and petted his back, in a slow, soothing arc. “Ask.”

“Do you believe in curses?” Castiel asked.

“Do you mean crossing magic, jinxes, hexes, or cursed objects?” Dean asked.

“Cursed...objects?” Castiel’s insides turned to ice. “Wait. I need some water.”

“Sure,” Dean said. “Or there’s the beer I left on the table. Might be warm now, though.”

“I think water.” Castiel kissed Dean’s shoulder and sat up. “And then you’re going to tell me about curses.”

“We can talk about whatever you want, Cas.”

“Good.” Castiel paused on the stairs and held tight to the railing. His vision narrowed down to a tunnel and his ears popped. “Oh.”

The bedding rustled. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.” Castiel’s voice sounded far away. “I think I need to eat something.”


	7. Led Zeppelin, Coda. Track 10: Travelling Riverside Blues

7.

He walked into the kitchen like he was watching everything on a shooting game. His hands came up to turn on the water tap, rose higher to bring down a pair of drinking glasses.

He didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t need anything on the kitchen island. But he couldn’t stop. He walked toward the knife block and touched the ebony handles. They were sharp. Castiel had made them sharp. He’d honed them to cut deep. To part skin like silk. They were sharp enough to get it right.

He didn’t want a knife. He didn’t need one.

He watched his hands pick one, the long, long blade shining as it met the light. This one would cut deep. It would cut--

“Cas?”

Dean stood there, still naked. The mark on his chest rose and fell with his breath. That damned mark kept him out, even when Dean was asleep it kept him out. He’d take that first, slice it, cut it away.

No, no. He didn’t want--

Castiel raised the knife and came at Dean.

“Shit.” Dean slid into a crouch and put the kitchen island between them. 

Castiel snarled and leapt over the island, swinging the knife. Dean slipped aside like an eel and shoved Castiel, tripping up his feet. Castiel stumbled and fell, the knife clattering to the slate floor.

What was he doing?

Dean was on him in a heartbeat. He shouted _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,”_ and yelped as Castiel bit him. _“Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii--”_

Castiel tried to stop. He heard himself scream in rage and fight to get loose, but Dean was on him, shouting Latin while Castiel’s body kicked and fought.

“ _Omnis legio, omnis congregato et secta diabolica--_ son of a bitch!” Dean cursed and ducked a sugar canister. It shattered on the floor and Castiel grabbed a shard, one corner digging deep in his hand.

“You can’t have him,” Castiel’s voice snarled. “He’s mine. We’ll always be together.”

“Fuck you, creepshow,” Dean grunted.

Cas screamed. Fury swept over him, but it wasn’t his. He tried to say “Help me,” but his fists clenched as rage balled up inside him and burst.

A cutlery drawer sailed open. Dean put up a hand and blocked a flying fork. Castiel dropped the shard for a steak knife and flew at Dean, who ducked and tackled Castiel to the floor again.

His head hit a door handle. The pain was distant, though it whited out his vision for an instant. 

“Mine,” Castiel’s voice shouted, and Dean smashed Castiel’s elbow into the slate. Castiel dropped the knife. Dean knocked it away.

“You’re Andrew,” Dean panted. “You killed them. Because he had sex with them. You got inside them and made them cut...but you couldn’t get in me, could you.”

“I’ll kill you,” Castiel spat. Rage clenched in him again. The cabinet door flew open, striking Dean in the shoulder. 

“Cas, I know you’re in there. Fight it!”

He didn’t know how. It was like screaming in a storm. He tried to shout for help.

Castiel wiggled out of Dean’s grasp and punched him in the face. Blood ran down Dean’s nose, and Castiel stared at it, diverted. Red, beautiful, dripping red. He wanted to see more. He wanted--

“Dean, help me,” he said, but his tongue stopped up. He couldn’t get his body back.

The door clicked open, and Dean fought to keep Castiel under control. “Sam!”

“Dean!” Sam skidded on silverware and sugar and went down in a heap, thumping against the cabinet wall.

“Sam--possessed,” Dean gasped, as Castiel managed to free his hand and grab Dean by the throat.

_“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus--”_

“Salt,” Dean wheezed. He clawed at Castiel’s hand. 

Sam scrambled over and tried to pry Castiel’s hand from Dean’s throat.

“Salt!” Dean hissed.

Sam scrabbled at a pocket. Dean’s grip on Castiel's wrist faltered, and Castiel smiled.

“He’s mine forever,” Castiel said, and screamed as coarse salt hit him in the face.

Sam wrenched Castiel’s grip free and mashed a handful of salt into Castiel’s mouth. 

Castiel coughed. Salt overwhelmed his taste, stung his eyes and nose. A dark cloud spewed from him. It took a vaguely human shape before the apparition scattered.

“Dean!”

Dean lay on his back and wheezed. “M’ok. Cas?”

Castiel spat out salt and coughed like he was choking. “Ok.”

Sam sat them both up, but he checked Dean first, who waved him away. “Cas first.”

“Dean,” Sam said.

“M’ok,” Dean said. “Get Cas water.”

Castiel drew in a breath like a desert. “I’m sorry.”

“None of that.”

Castiel wheezed. “I tried to kill you.”

“No you didn’t,” Dean croaked.

Sam brought Castiel water in a big plastic cup and a bowl. Castiel rinsed his mouth and spat, coughing up more salt. Tears streamed from his eyes. His nose burned.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel coughed.

“You didn’t do it,” Dean said. Sam crouched over him with another plastic cup of water and a wet cloth. Dean swatted at him and took the cloth from him.

“Okay, fine,” Sam said. “I’ll do something useful, like find you guys some pants.”

“In the dryer,” Castiel said. “sliding doors.”

“Coming up,” Sam said.

Castiel listened to Dean breathe, ragged and painful. “I couldn’t control myself,” Castiel said. “I couldn’t stop.”

“You were possessed,” Dean said. 

“By a demon?”

“By your ex-boyfriend,” Dean said. “You’re haunted.”

“I’m...he was inside me?” Castiel bent over and vomited into the bowl. 

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “You’re gonna be okay, Cas, this is--”

Castiel heaved.

Sam’s booted feet stopped in a scattering of sugar. “How you doing, Dean?”

“Fabulous,” Dean muttered, and caught a pair of flannel pants. “Where’s the inscription ink?”

Sam laid a pair of flannel pants near Castiel’s hand, and traded him a clean bowl for the fouled one. “Inscription ink? It’s in the car.”

“Fuck. Anti-possession charm?”

“In the car.”

Dean threw his hands in the air. “What _did_ you bring, Sam?”

“Well, salt.” Sam paused through the flushing of the downstairs toilet. “Goofer dust. A bronze knife. The Colt.”

“And they say _I’m_ a hammerhead.” Dean hopped up to clear his feet through the legs of the pants Sam had thrown at him.

“Dude!” Sam turned away.

“Caught you looking, Sammy.” Dean crouched down beside Castiel. “You okay?”

“No,” Castiel said.

“That’s okay,” Dean said. His voice was still hoarse. “You’re gonna be okay, Cas. My brother and me, this is what we do. Do you have a pen? I need to write on your skin.”

“Up there,” Castiel pointed. “Dean.”

“Yes.”

Castiel swallowed. He’d never stop tasting salt in his mouth. “Did I kill Scott? Scott Ruskin?”

Dean went still.

“You knew he was dead?” Sam asked.

“It was on the news. There was another,” Castiel said. “In New Orleans. They held a wake for him. Am I--am I a murderer?”

He looked up at Dean, who held out his hand. Castiel looked at it. He didn’t deserve it.

“Cas, you didn’t kill them.” Dean stood up, looking for a pen. “Andrew’s spirit possessed them, and made them cut themselves until they bled to death.”

“But I was responsible,” Castiel said. “If I hadn’t--”

“Stop it there,” Dean said. “You are not responsible. You are not.”

“But if I hadn’t--”

“You aren’t responsible for what he did, Cas,” Dean said, and held up a pen. “Will you let me draw on you? It’s magic.”

Castiel nodded, and Dean drew the pen along Castiel’s right shoulder. 

“How many?” Castiel asked.

“How many died?” Dean asked

“Yes.”

Dean stayed silent for a bit. “We think...we know about eight.”

“Oh, my God,” Castiel whispered. “Dear God, what have I done.”

“You didn’t kill them.”

Castiel started to shake his head, but stilled at a warning grunt from Dean. “I tried to kill you.”

“ _He_ tried to kill me.”

“I could see it all happening,” Castiel said.

“He used your body because he couldn’t get in mine,” Dean said. 

“Because of your tattoo,” Castiel said.

“Yup.”

“I’m getting one,” Castiel said. “First thing in the morning.”

“Good idea,” Dean said. “Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. He’d been so quiet. 

“Can you find us a tattoo artist who opens first thing in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Sam walked out of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”

Dean waited until the door closed. The pen still dragged across Castiel’s skin, patient and careful. 

“This ex. Andrew. Was he a bad boy?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cas agreed. “I have a type.”

“Started out great, didn’t it. He was into you, and you couldn’t believe it.”

“He was so sweet,” Castiel said. “I was a bit of a nerd. And he liked me.”

“You tried, Cas,” Dean said. “You tried so hard. If you could get it right, if you could stop screwing up, everything would be okay. It would be great.”

Castiel stayed quiet.

“And it could be great, couldn’t it. He’d shower you with love, affection, attention. He’d take you someplace special, somewhere it was just the two of you.”

“Yes.”

“And you figured out that you shouldn't let him take you out to dinner, because he’d get mad, because you were flirting with the waitress, the waiter, the theater usher, whoever just talked to you. You couldn’t make friends, you lost all your old friends.”

“Yes,” Castiel said. His eyes flooded.

Dean knew.

“It was best when it was just the two of you. Only it wasn’t as good as it used to be. Then it was all you could do was try not to make him angry, and you kept fucking up.”

Castiel’s arms flexed tight over his middle. 

Dean drew a circle in one slow movement. “None of it was your fault.”

Castiel shook his head. Dean’s pen scratched into Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas, it wasn’t your fault. He did it. From the first time he ordered for you in a restaurant, from the first time you were charmed by how romantic he was, he did it all.”

“But I--”

“No,” Dean said. “You were right when you said you had a sign on your head, in a way. You’re nice. You made the peace in your home, because one of your parents was always angry about something, so you learned how to--”

Dean swallowed. “You learned how to be a good son.”

“You,” Castiel said. “You were the good son.”

The pen moved over Castiel’s shoulder in short, jagged strokes of flame. 

“Yes.”

Sam came back in time to help Castiel pick up silverware. “The earliest opening is Sunshine Tattoo at 9:00 a.m,” he said. 

Dean swept salt and sugar off the floor. “We’ll be there 9:00 am sharp and hope they’re not booked.”

Sam dropped spoons into the sink. “Dean, did you find the link?”

“What’s a link? What are you talking about?” Castiel asked.

“Do you have something of his? Something that was part of his body?” Dean asked.

Castiel’s eyes darted down to his wrist.

“Don’t say kidney,” Sam said. “Or bone marrow. Just please don’t.”

“The bracelet,” Dean said.

Castiel raised his wrist. “It’s a hollow tube. There’s a lock of his hair and my hair braided inside it.”

“He gave it to you?”

Castiel nodded.

“Give it here,” Sam said. “It has to be burnt.”

“Not judging you,” Dean said. “But I want to know. Why’d you keep it, Cas?”

“I wanted a reminder,” Castiel said. “He gave the bracelet to me after we’d been together a week.”

“Do you still want to keep it?” Dean asked.

Castiel tore the bracelet off his wrist. “Take it.”

Sam dropped the silver tube into a bag of rock salt. 

“Then it’ll be over?” Castiel asked.

Sam spoke up. “His body. Did they bury him?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “The undertaker did a very good job. He looked like he was sleeping.” Andrew’s mother had returned the bracelet to him. It had weighed on Castiel’s wrist with guilt, fault, and responsibility. “He’s buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery in Washington state, in Bremerton.”

“It’s two days on the road to get back there,” Sam said. 

“We’ll take care of it,” Dean said.

Castiel shook his head. “I’m coming with you.”

“Cas, we’re going to dig up his grave, salt his body, and burn it,” Sam said.

“I have to see it for myself,” Castiel said. “I’m going with you.”

Dean and Castiel slept wound around each other. Dean offered to stay up and talk to Cas, but Castiel shook his head and led Dean upstairs. Dean stroked his hair, kissed his forehead, and Castiel listened to the calm steady beat of Dean’s heart until sleep came.

Castiel woke up alone. The bed beside him was warm but faded. Moisture from a shower hung in the air. He’d slept like a _rock_ next to Dean, a sleep so deep he didn’t even remember dreaming, and woke up in an empty bed.

He sat up. The bathroom was empty, the lights off. The gray light from the window told him it was early, and he picked up his phone to check the time.

It was 7:30 am. Had he gone? “Dean?”

“Downstairs,” Dean called. 

Castiel’s heart started beating again. “Are you okay?”

“Yup!” Dean called. “Sam’s going to be here in about fifteen minutes.”

“What are you doing?” Castiel got up and leaned over the railing.

“Wondering how you don’t starve to death,” Dean said. “Breakfast is oatmeal and coffee, unless you’d rather have rice for breakfast?”

“There’s eggs.”

“They all float. I threw them out.”

“Is that how you tell they’ve gone bad? Never mind,” Castiel called down. “I’m going to get decent before Sam gets here.”

Sam was there before Castiel was done with his morning shower and shave, and he left the door open so their voices murmured up to the loft while he packed his bathroom kit. Dean’s younger brother nodded and said “hey” to him as if last night hadn’t turned a hair on his head.

“Dean told me it was quiet here last night.” Sam waved his hand at a coffee mug next to him. “I burned the hair. You shouldn’t be bothered again.”

“It’s a long road trip to Bremerton,” Castiel said. “I think we can make it to Montana tonight, though.”

“He’s coming with us, Sam,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Sam looked into his coffee cup, then looked up. “I’m not saying I don’t want you to come. You have the right to see it through.”

“That’s right, he does,” Dean said. 

“Is there a problem?” Castiel asked.

Sam said “No,” and Dean said, “He’s getting all emo about your life.”

Castiel moved over to sit beside Sam, and watched Dean hunt for cereal bowls. “Because I was haunted?”

Sam shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“Sounds like it’s something that’s bothering you,” Castiel stirred sugar into his cup.

“Most people never get past the divide,” Sam explained. “They think it’s all stories and superstition. Knowing it’s real means your life’s different after.”

“He means you don’t find out the supernatural’s real unless you survive it, Cas.” Dean scraped out equal measures of cooked oatmeal into each bowl, and then added a little extra to one. “Either it’s bullshit on a ouija board or it’s something that changes your life.”

“Ah.” Castiel accepted a bowl of oatmeal. He oversweetened it, added milk and butter, and sprinkled cinnamon on top. “One of those events where you look at your life _Before_ and then _After_. Something like that?”

Sam took the fullest bowl of oatmeal. “I wish it hadn’t happened to you, Cas.”

“Oh, me too,” Castiel said. “But wishes don’t make horses. It’s a long string of things that happened, Sam. If I’d never met Andrew, I wouldn’t be here. I’d have clawed my way up to middle management and never become a writer. Wishing Andrew never happened erases a bunch of choices I like.”

Dean was watching him. Castiel could feel it. “There are choices I really like, Sam, and I earned them.”

Dean held his eyes when Castiel looked his way. 


	8. Lincoln Durham, Exodus of the Deemed Unrighteous. Track 1: Ballad of a Prodigal Son

8.

It didn’t take long to pack. Sam and Dean cleaned the apartment with the coordinated efficiency of a team. Castiel didn’t think a fingerprint or even a hair remained once they locked the door behind them and took the trash out. They dropped the key off at the realtor’s and went up to Sunshine Tattoo, a clean, well lit studio. Castiel let all the artists get a good look at his tiger before he settled in a chair to have a patch of his belly hair shaved and the design transferred to his skin. Castiel fell into the trance that had carried him through hours of getting his tiger, the bright and insisting pulse of the single needle tattoo gun in his skin a presence he already knew how to live with.

“Wakey wakey,” Mike, the bearded artist said with a big grin and a wave of his gloved hand. 

Castiel looked down at reddened skin and the raised, vivid line of his protection. “That was so fast.”

Mike laughed. “Compared to the hours you got on your back? I guess so.”

“Thanks,” Castiel said. “I appreciate the work on short notice.”

Dean took charge of the aftercare pamphlets while the receptionist swore Castiel had fallen asleep in the chair. Castiel paid and tipped, then led the way back to the car. He had to sit with the top button of his jeans undone, his shirt covering the waistband.

They drove hell bent for Seattle and made it into Montana before they stopped for the night. Dean chose a motel that advertised a pool, air conditioning, and HBO, the sign flashing “vacancy” at the bottom.

Sam pushed out of the passenger side first. “I’ll check us in and get two rooms.”

Castiel shut his mouth on _‘You don’t have to do that’_ when Dean said, “Thanks, Sammy,” but Dean looked up to his rear view mirror. His face fell and then knit back into an easy smile so fast Castiel’s chest hurt.

“I can tell him we don’t need the other room,” Dean said.

“We do,” Castiel said. “Dean, I was going to say I should pay for the second room.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “I’ve got to clean out the car, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Dean didn’t come in until after Castiel had settled in. He took a shower before coming to the bed.

“How’s the tattoo?” Dean asked.

“Okay,” Castiel said. “It feels warm and sore.”

Dean raised the blankets and slid in beside Castiel. Cas rolled over and snuggled under Dean’s arm. Dean hugged him tight before remembering the tattoo bandage. “Sorry. Did that hurt?”

“No,” Castiel said. “Dean--”

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “Cas, we don’t have to have sex.”

“But--”

“Do you want to?” Dean asked.

The question stopped Castiel short. Did he want to?

No. He didn’t. He wanted to duck his head and say it didn’t matter. He didn’t know what would--

What would please Dean, he realized.

“I don’t know,” Castiel confessed.

Dean kissed Castiel’s forehead and twisted to turn out the light. He settled down in the dark and Castiel breathed in the earthy sweet, grassy smell that made him think of New Orleans. “Look, you can jump my bones any time you want, I’ll be ready. In an hour, in the morning, whenever. When you _want_ to. But you don’t need to fix this. It ain’t broken.”

Castiel wondered what _this_ was, and ran Dean’s words through his head looking for what he was missing until Dean kissed his forehead again.

“Castiel,” Dean said. “Believe me. It’s okay. Try to sleep.”

He woke up in a slash of sunlight that landed on his face. He shared a companionable shower with Dean and they were on the road in search of a breakfast diner in under an hour. 

They gassed up every few hours, and Castiel quietly withdrew a bunch of cash as the stations got lonelier and more remote. Most people were bemused at the Impala, but Dean always spoke of it ( _“her,”_ Dean would insist) with such love and fondness that people responded with their own romantic notions of life on the highway.

Roadtrips were long. They had a shoebox worth of classic rock tapes. Castiel couldn’t get up to stretch his back and legs with a walk down the train cars. They had to pull over and stop: for food, more gas, to piss down a mountain. The tattoo chafed and itched. 

When Castiel took a turn behind the wheel, Sam and Dean told stories of learning how to drive in this car. They talked to each other, sang along to the music, and Sam started telling Castiel stories about hunting. They traded seats and Castiel learned that vampires and werewolves were real. A shifter’s eyes reflected back silver through a camera lens. Wiccans might sometimes call themselves witches but the witches they dealt with served demons. Hell was real, and if Heaven was there, it wasn’t talking. Sometimes the stories Castiel knew came close, but the world Sam and Dean knew was a secret, known to few. 

“Are you guys teaching me this?” Castiel asked after the third hour, and Sam looked at Dean, who traded a wordless, but meaningful look at his brother.

“It didn’t start out that way,” Sam said.

“But I guess, kinda,” Dean said. “Why, would you rather not know?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. “I wondered if there was going to be a quiz after.”

Sam laughed, but Dean looked at him in the rear view mirror before cracking a smile.

Seattle tore out his heart.

He’d thought he would never come back, but here he was. He knew this city in his bones, felt the soft cool air and smelled _Green._ The calm resignation you needed to survive in Seattle traffic fell over him like a cloak. He got quieter, and Sam eventually used maps to navigate them downtown to the ferry for Bremerton.

By the time they rolled onto the deck, Castiel felt sick.

“You okay?” Dean asked, and Castiel shrugged. 

“I get motion sick on the ferry indoors.”

“Is that all?” Sam asked

Castiel shook his head, caught. “No.”

“Talk to me,” Dean said.

“I don’t know how many times I thought I’d never come back here,” Castiel said as they climbed the stairs to the passenger deck. “And here I am again.”

“Do you hate Seattle?” Dean asked.

“I love it,” Castiel said. “I miss it every day.”

“You know,” Sam said. “Once we take care of this, you could--”

“No, Sam,” Castiel said. “We’ll only have put one ghost to rest when we’re done here.”

“I get it,” Sam said. “Listen, I’ll be back.”

Dean popped up the collar of his leather coat and sat with his arm around Castiel’s waist, content to be quiet while Castiel watched the steel grey sea. Sam came back with a packet of saltines and a ginger ale. 

Castiel felt gratitude warm him. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Went back to the car for something,” Sam said. “You’re worried you’ll be recognized, right?”

Castiel supposed it wasn’t hard to figure out. “If anyone talks to me, they’ll call me Jimmy.”

Dean nodded. “You told me your old name that night. Cas, I think you were fighting possession.”

“Some things make a creepy sort of sense with the knowledge that I was haunted,” Castiel said, dryly. 

“Anyway,” Sam interrupted, and offered a cloth bundle tied with string. “Here.”

Castiel said, “What’s that?”

Dean said, “Hey, good idea.”

“But what is it?” Castiel asked.

“Mojo bag,” Sam said. “It’s a don’t-notice-me charm.”

Castiel squeezed it and it crunched like herbs, their smell blooming in the air. “This real?”

“It’s real,” Dean said. “Made it myself.”

Castiel put the bag in his trenchcoat pocket and leaned against Dean’s shoulder. “We’re not supposed to stay down here. Let’s go up to the deck.”

The coffee from the ferry vending machines was just as terrible as it had always been - bitter, too hot, and lightened with non-dairy creamer. Dean made a face that would have made Castiel laugh if he hadn’t been scanning _the Cathlamet’s_ passenger deck with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The back of his neck crawled as he watched the people milling around the indoor space, everyone carefully not looking at each other.

“You okay?” Dean asked, just as the person Castiel dreaded seeing came into view. 

Anna still treated her hair with henna. The deep, unmistakable red was a beacon that attracted more than one eye. His sister looked through the stares, chin high, accustomed to the attention.

Castiel jammed his hand into the pocket of his trenchcoat and squeezed the charm bag Sam had given him. Anna looked right through him as she walked past and sat down, fishing a Kindle out of her briefcase.

Dean followed his gaze, and signaled to Sam, who had just bought a bottle of water from a vending machine. They walked out into the fresh air and chilly breeze. 

“I’d forgotten she usually took this ferry home,” Castiel said.

“Somebody you used to know?”

His heart ached. He hadn’t called her in a year. “That was my sister.”

Dean stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “You want to catch up with her, call me later?”

“I can’t,” Castiel said. “It’s not a good time.”

She’d want to drag him home, see everybody, ask questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

“Okay,” Dean said. “You could, though. Sam and me could handle this.”

“No,” Castiel said. “We’re going to dig up a grave. Family reunions have to wait.”

They rolled off the ferry in full night and Castiel gave directions to a drive through for burgers and a rest area where they could wait a few hours.

“Grave digging,” Sam muttered. “Soil on the west coast weighs a damn ton.”

Sam was right. It was hard, chilly, muddy work, punctuated by heavy breaths, soft cursing, and furtive breaks to hydrate and eat. Sam was devoted to Clif bars, and Dean ate a Cool Mint Chocolate flavored bar while complaining that it tasted like the inside of an REI. It took them hours to dig down to the coffin and get it open.

“Cas, you don’t have to watch this,” Dean said.

“You don’t understand,” Castiel said. “I’m here to drop the match.”

Sam nodded and handed the box over.

Castiel did look down at Andrew’s body. It lay on green satin, Andrew’s favorite color. Flesh and hair still remained on the body, though the blue suit was sunken and holey with decay. Castiel felt a cold chill on his neck that wasn’t the shifting of a breeze, and he sprinkled salt on the body.

Lighter fluid followed, and Castiel struck a match and let it fall, dropped a second, a third.

The flame blazed high, kissing their faces with a flash of heat. The three of them stood and watched it burn.

Dean set a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Cas turned his head to look at his tear-blurred face.

“I did love him,” Castiel said. “For a long time.”

“I know,” Dean said.

“And now it’s over,” Castiel said.

“It’s over,” Dean said. 

“Thank you for bringing me,” Castiel said, and led the way back to the car.

They drove the long way around the sound and stopped at a Motel 6 in Tacoma, booking two rooms. Castiel leaned against the aqua bathroom tile and let the hot water wash over him, his tattoo protected with saran wrap and tape, until the water cooled. He got out, the light from the bathroom spilling across the king size bed where Dean waited, watching Castiel rub his hair dry with a towel wrapped around his waist. Castiel looked back as he swiped water droplets off his shoulders and chest, watched Dean’s gaze slide down to where the towel bulged forward, and back up to Castiel’s face.

Castiel hung the damp towel on a hook and crossed the dim room. Castiel straddled his hips, kissing Dean while he groped for the box of condoms.

“Are you ready?” Castiel asked.

“Fuck, yes,” Dean answered.

Castiel didn’t want gentle and Dean didn’t try to slow him down. Castiel bit Dean’s lips when they kissed, and Dean held his head still with his hands full of Castiel’s hair and bit back. Dean tried to roll Castiel onto his back but Cas pinned Dean’s hands down and smiled at how Dean writhed under him.

It was fast and silent until the sharp hiss Castiel gave as he took Dean in, hips already circling as he rode Dean’s undulating pelvis and broad cock, his own fisted in his right hand. Dean thrust into him, the cords on his neck standing out as they crashed together. Castiel looked into Dean’s eyes, pupils wide and dark, his mouth open on sharp, panting breaths. Castiel kept watching Dean even when he lost focus, when he shuddered and came all over his hand, when he broke his silence to say _Dean_ , when Dean answered him back with a strangled gasp and the beautiful tension on Dean’s face as he grabbed Castiel’s hips hard enough to bruise.

Dean looked back at him, and Castiel didn’t look away from the soft look in Dean’s eyes or flinch from the ache in his heart. Dean reached up and pulled Castiel down for a kiss, slow and so sweet it made Castiel rush with warmth. 

“Thank you,” Dean said. 

Castiel didn’t know how to say it, so he kissed Dean again.

They slept until their alarm went off. The light of full morning set dust motes dancing in the air. Castiel raised his head and Dean watched him with a small smile in his eyes.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hi,” Castiel said, and rolled over to face him.

“So Sam and I go to Sioux Falls every summer,” Dean said. “You want to come with us?”

“What’s in Sioux Falls?”

“Family,” Dean said. “Bobby’s not related, but he’s--”

“Family,” Castiel said.

“Jo and Ellen Harvelle, about six hours out in Nebraska. They own a...watering hole for hunters. Can you paint walls? Ellen works us like dogs.”

“And you’re not related to them either,” Castiel said. “But they’re--”

“Family,” Dean said. 

“There’s no train in South Dakota,” Castiel said.

Dean’s expression faltered. “Do you know where you want to go?” 

“No,” Castiel admitted. 

“I’ll take you to Fargo when you know,” Dean promised. “Or, hell, I’ll show you which cars are running, so you can steal one and take yourself.”

“Until I decide what to do?” Castiel asked.

Dean nodded.

“Can we go somewhere first? There’s something I need to do.”

Dean muttered under his breath and the Hummer parked in front of the Starbucks at 1912 Pike Place pulled away.

“That’s a spell,” Castiel accused. 

“Best spell I know.” Dean backed the Impala into the space.

“I’d like to see you do that in New York,” Castiel muttered, and Sam barked out a laugh as they got out of the car.

“That a wager?” Dean asked.

“It might be,” Castiel said, and slipped inside.

The first Starbucks store wasn’t anything like the others he’d visited all over the country. There was nowhere to sit. The original logo of the two-tailed mermaid was in brown, and still proclaimed Starbucks as a purveyor of spices.

But it smelled right, of roasted coffee and oil soap. The dark wood floor was worn from years of shuffling feet. The line moved up as the efficient baristas made drink orders and the cashiers rang up souvenir merchandise.

“One grande Pike Place roast with room, one grande Americano, one grande soy latte,” Castiel said, and they shuffled along to pick up their cups. Castiel stuck his nose in and breathed deep. 

This was it. The coffee wafted up its familiar scent. It was his favorite, and he mixed it exactly the way he used to before getting out of the way of tourist customers.

“I used to work here,” Castiel said. “A lifetime ago.”

“How long ago?” Dean asked.

Castiel laughed. “Kurt Cobain was still alive.”

“I was in middle school,” Sam mused.

“You can shut up any time now, youngster,” Castiel said. 

Sam smirked and drank his latte.

Dean held his cup and tried a sip. His eyebrows went up, and he nodded. “This is good.”

“I never thought I’d come back.” Castiel led them out to the wide sidewalk. 

They leaned on the car and drank coffee, watching a guitar player set up for busking the tourists, now lined up out the door. 

“Done saying goodbye?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Castiel said. 

“You’ll be back,” Dean said. “It doesn’t have to be never any more.”

Sam coughed. “I’m going to go buy some fruit for the road.” 

Dean smiled at Sam’s retreating back. “He doesn’t have a lot of practice being the third wheel.” 

“I see that,” Castiel watched Sam disappear into the crowd around the market. “Do you think he could get used to it?”

“That depends,” Dean said. “Have you decided what you’ll do?”

“About going with you, or talking to my sister?”

“Either or.”

King Street station was about a mile away. Castiel could walk it, suitcase and all, in about fifteen minutes. He could buy the first ticket out of town, going anywhere. He looked back at Dean, who wouldn’t tell him to stay even though Castiel could feel how he wanted it. Who’d drive him to the train and let him go, if Castiel said the word.

He would let Cas go.

Castiel would be a fool to do the same.

“I’ll call her later. Maybe when we get to where you’re going.”

Dean’s shoulders relaxed, as he let out a breath. “You’ll come with us?”

“I’ll go with you to South Dakota,” Castiel said. “For the summer.”

Dean bumped Castiel’s shoulder with his own. “Good.”

“Then…” Castiel said, and Dean stayed still. “Then I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know, Cas.” Dean’s knuckles brushed Castiel’s hand. “Just come. We’ll teach you to shoot and fix old cars and you can ask all the questions you want about hunting.”

“I’ll be tempted to write a book.”

“Nobody’ll believe it.”

Castiel was still holding Dean’s hand when Sam walked up, carrying a pair of shopping bags weighted with produce. He stopped a few paces away. 

“You’re coming with us,” Sam said, watching their clasped hands.

“Yeah,” Castiel said. “Never wrote a book in South Dakota.”

“Good,” Sam said, and slipped past them to open the passenger side door. “Shotgun.”

Dean laughed and squeezed Castiel’s hand. “You feel like driving?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I'm ceeainthereforthat on tumblr, too.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Life-Affirming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7697416) by [Defiler_Wyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Defiler_Wyrm)




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